And God Cries

We awaken. It begins. Incoherent babble, followed by self-grandeur boasting, continuing with meaningless fodder and derogatory comments directed at rivals, enemies, female journalists, world leaders, immigrants, and people of color.

The stories trickle in along with videos shot by bystanders trying to prove that those around them are just trying to help, to fight, to resist, to not conform to misogyny, racism, fascism, and hate. The beatings begin, the shouting. Pushing, shoving, screaming, then the inevitable: the shooting. The maiming, the killing. The ending of life.

Blood runs red in the streets as the wounded speak last words, grasp at the air, remembering their loved ones they are about to leave behind, voices fading, tears falling, mixing in the red, flowing toward the feet of those who have murdered them.

The name-calling, the laughing, the cursing come next. The back-patting, the chest-puffing, the rush of heat as they watch their handiwork with admiration and dream of the next one they’ll overpower, maul, destroy, kill.

The jackets are buckled, firearms holstered, masks put back in place because the cowardice is so enormous they can’t let us see their faces. It’s not shame; it should be. It’s the spinelessness of a madman who revels in others’ pain and who refuses to recognize the person standing before him is also a human being.

They move along, pushing their way through the crowd of those who are astonished by what they’ve witnessed, more tears falling, the blood still following, boots sticking to the ground as the red liquid begins to freeze.

And the face of the dead, frozen in time, looking toward the sky, the winter wind whipping across faces, as eyes search the Heavens for a God who is weeping.

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