The Pulse

You can still hear the shots echoing through the air.

You can still imagine the horrible pain,


And the people’s tears fall like rain,

I bet it’s hard to bare.

As I sit in the tree, Orlando is calmer,

And as you watch the people go rushing by,

I lie,

If I say the city is fine.

My country is a goner.

So I watch from high in the sky, in this tree inn

And look down on the buildings set under me,


That’s very hard to find these days

With so many easy-done sins.


I was in Orlando recently, and drove by The Pulse. It is scary, seeing it in person, but touching, seeing how so many people had gathered in memorial. We were still downtown, and we found an amazing tree. It must’ve been hundreds of years old, with it’s branches sweeping on the ground. I climbed up it and looked around at the city, taking in the view. So this poem is dedicated to the Pulse victims, their families, and anyone affected by this act of terror.  

Amelika I. Kaumaha


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