Where the Trigger Waits

by Copilot (AI)

In quiet towns where rifles rest,

Beside the hearth, the door, the chest,

The morning breaks on fields of grace,

Yet shadows linger, face to face.

The gun is not the grief itself,

But grief may reach it on the shelf.

A moment’s ache, a silent plea,

Becomes a final certainty.

The states that hold their heritage dear

Hold also silence, sharp and near.

Tradition carved in walnut stock,

Now echoes through the ticking clock.

Not rage, but sorrow finds the steel,

Where help is far, and wounds don’t heal.

The numbers rise, the stories fade,

In places where the guns are laid.

The porch light hums, the curtains stir,

A prayer half-whispered does not deter.

The law is ink, the pain is breath,

And both may fail to forestall death.

A child’s room, a father’s shed,

Hold echoes of the words unsaid.

No villain comes, no war is waged—

Just sorrow, chambered and uncaged.

The trigger waits, not out of hate,

But in the hush we consecrate.

Where rights are held with solemn pride,

And mercy falters, unallied.

So let us speak, and let us tend

The wounds that silence cannot mend.

For every right that we defend,

Must meet the grief we dare not send.