Poem: The Voiceless

No one ever hears them die,
and no one hears them scream.
No one can believe the lie;
it cannot be unseen.

Tired now of this old jest
—we’re tired, wearing thin.
Tired now, we want to rest,
forget what’s in the bin.

Wicked men may sleep today;
the wicked yet may wake.
Wicked men still pass away
just like the lives they take.

Voices scream out banal words;
the voices drown out thought.
Voices scream, but still unheard
the voiceless and their lot.

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