Broken Record

I want a permanent address in your heart

You want a perpetual renter, for me it is hard

You excel in new tunes on the chords

My stylus is stuck in the grooves of a broken record

My love, pain of unspoken words

Is worse than the stabs of an assassin’s swords

Bloodhounds are running amok

‘The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;’ – WB Yeats

They come in ones, they come in twos
They come in hordes, they come in groups
Spears, knives and swords are old history
Now they all have guns to create misery
Knights they are not, bravery and chivalry is out the door
Cowards are they, they are not bothered by lore
They have supporters all around claiming guns don’t kill
Those politicians, masquerading righteous saints, up on the Hill
Shedding crocodile tears and observing moments of silence
When innocent lives are snuffed out by acts of dastardly violence
Bloodhounds are running amok emboldened by their backing
Innocence is the victim when pretentious fools refuse to enact ruling

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This poem is in response to Jane Dougherty’s A Month (November) with Yeats Challenge day Eight