I can’t stop thinking about little Cannon Hinnant and all the children who have been killed this year by the madness that seems to have infected America.
I don’t know what the solution is, except perhaps mandatory, nationwide classes in how to control emotion, because that’s what every sociopathic idiot has in common – total inability to regulate their own impulses. They have chaotic minds, and lead chaotic lives, and the kids are dragged into them. Misery truly does love company.
I suppose it’s nothing new. The innocent have always suffered because of the sins and foolishness of men.
Looking at their sweet, trusting faces, and thinking about what their lives and futures “should” have been – if they could have trusted the broken world they were born into – brought to mind an old poem by Longfellow.
The Open Window
The old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familiar tone;
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand.
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