Kico's Song

There is a boy from Illinois,
With murder in his eye,
He's not a toy. Man, not boy!
That is this child's cry.
He sulks around until he's found,
A playmate for the day.
From sky to ground and hill to mound,
The corn fields sing and sway.
Yellow hills off window sills,
Paint the sky bright blue,
The greens will stop his need to kill,
For the trees sing to him too.
His own song, his ears do long,
To hear it play once more,
Just to belong, is that so wrong?
It pierces through his core.
A look of shock from those that mock,
This poor childs dream,
From the dock, hit not by rock,
But a bullet from the seam.
To touch the wound, and all too soon,
He knows that something's amiss,
A sweet perfume, a bloody blume,
As he's rocked by death's last kiss.
A sigh from lips to finger tips,
Echos through the field.
The sweet ground sips at careful drips,
As his life, to heaven yields.
Free at last, not like the past,
He hears his song once more,
A look he casts, comes wings too fast,
He belongs to what's in store.