Finish Lines

Boston, you’re my home. Down by the banks of the River Charles Lay lovers, bugs, and thieves, Thinking dirty water can only be soiled by innocent blood. Tell me that trees can grow from shrapnel bits And tendrils of life can root themselves in the earth by glass blown out from store windows. Will that 8 year old child’s tomb stone read “Finish lines have never been so evil”. That child grew up thinking that finish lines were beautiful things. That ribbon is supposed to be cut by the force of humans Working towards the better, Not by the frantic clawing of paramedics Tearing at the clothes of mangled bodies. I saw the videos of the aftermath on the channel 7 news. When the police and civilians Rushed to the scenes to break down barriers between themselves and victims The flags of every nation were cast to the bloody pavement And trampled on through the chaos. And I think that it’s very sad That it takes the inclusive destruction of something so pure To make people forget differences. And I think it’s very sad That people are sitting and pointing the finger When there are people who are dead And families scraping their knees on the concrete Trying to find their loved one’s traces among ghosts. Tell me, If everyone’s ankles were blown out from under them Like so many people’s today, Is that what it would take For people to get on the same level. To see that violence is a terminal worldwide disorder And there is absolutely no way to cure it. But its symptoms can be minimized If people work towards the finish line; All the lovers, bugs, and thieves. Plant the shrapnel in Boston Common. Let it grow into something beautiful. And use the shattered glass as a mirror To watch yourself everyday As you run that final mile To the finish line.