What colour is this blood?

What I had heard
Was Denver's land -
Dark
Dusty (I had thought dusky).
An idyllic expanse
Where people sat on fences
With a twig in their mouth,
And strumming guitars.

What I hear now
Is the trickle of blood
And the silent
"Why?"
As people cry
For Ryan and Christopher
And Reema.
While their family
Stare silently
Into a future without them.

I never knew
Blue Ridge Mountain.
I never knew
Austin Cloyd
Never will.
But I know that
The Blue Ridge Mountains
Can't match her pretty tresses.
Or Brian's toothy smile.
But it does mirror
The hard reality of
Decadence.

What has this world come to,
When a young man
Is given a gun
But no guidance?
What are we being
Educated to become?

While governments
Are interested in warheads
And votes,
And news channels
In maximum coverage,
Let us spend a minute
Nay, a lifetime
In praying for those who died
Before they could live
The full life
They might have dreamt of.