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I listen.

The air has no pulse.

There is only silence,

As violence against women continues.

A burglar on an opened heart

Ransacks tranquil memories

And a naive belief in truth and love ever after;

Throws open the drawers of civility

And tosses values and virtues

To the ground,

But the anguish is not shouted

Into the night

To articulate their fear.

The cries are muffled

As cotton in the ears,

By a hand upon the mouth,

Or threats of retribution.


The airwaves,

And movie screens are saturated

With images and lyrics

That disrespect the queen.

The artists retort that freedom of speech

Allows them to express themselves

In a free country paid for by collective

Sacrifices of indentured servants

And those freed by birth or bill of sale.

Many died for liberty and justice,

But is this the freedom they had in mind?

The expression leads to oppression

And regression of respect.


The streets are watching,

As witnesses to evaporated

Safety nets that hang defenseless

Like a fog over the residences

That were once a haven of rest

For millions of women and children;

Residences that stood as a fortress

And universities of life

Where vulgarity was a rarity

And rough words and misguided hands

Were infrequent visitors

And forbidden intruders.


The emotional predators

Play the editors

On self esteem.

Smooth talking, conniving individuals

With invisible intentions,

Stalking and thriving

On the innocence of their victims.

They sculpt new features

And carve courage and hope

Out of the work and they autograph

The sculpture to let you know

They were there,

Defaming the masterpieces

Of creation with signatures of deception.


The weak who sometimes succumb

To abuse over loneliness,

Intermittent affection

Over rejection,

Something predictable,

Though destructive,

They often confine themselves

To hope, which has by definition

Only a possibility of happiness

For the believers who ascribe

To a doctrine of deliverance.


The weak, need voices to sing with them

And for them.

They request instruments to play their plight

Into a sad song that the night

Will amplify until the bass and treble is heard

In every measure.

The weak need the perpetrators silenced

By the community led chorus of support

And the orchestra of understanding.

The weak need composers to translate their pain

Into songs and many to march against the music of misery

And stir the heart with it's demand for justice.

The weak need someone to open the curtains

On the cruel acts of betrayal,

So that exposure to the audience will bring change.

They know the disclosure will incite the critics

Among us to cry for protection and retribution,

So that discovery leads to corrective actions

And improvements, solutions,

Fines and the appropriate sentencing

To those who violate our women.


I listen.

The air has no pulse.

There is only silence

As the emotional violence

Against women continues.

But soon the heart

Will beat boldly in the distance

In and through different venues

Until the outrage

Like a megaton explosion

Forces us to act

In the name of peace

And the God who made us

As an instrument of His love.


Copyright Ó 2006 Orlando Ceaser

Watchwell Communications, Inc.