Sound of Screaming

By Azalea

They will not play you the screams.

They will clip the wire,

scrub the blood from the microphone,

leave only the hollow hum of air conditioning.

Then they will stand at podiums,

hands folded like folded flags,

and offer thoughts and prayers

cheap coins tossed into a well they never visit.

We bury children,

and they bury the sound.

Both disappear beneath polished dirt.

But the sound is still there

trapped in the throats of empty chairs,

beating against the ribcages of the living,

waiting for someone to stop praying

and start tearing down the doors.