Black Boots, Black Day

You saw death approaching,
I apologized to the reaper.

You held a bloodied pen,
I used the ink for my politics.

You feared the black boots,
I bred them.

Your blood is on my hands.

Your pens, your papers, your notebooks,
Your backpacks, your books.

All soaked from your blood,
That blood is on my hands.

I live because you didn't,
That blood is on my hands.

You died because they didn't,
that blood is on my hands.

Red, not the blood of angry men,
But of your hope and my shame.

Rest In Peace. We, as a society, have failed you.