Irish uncle

Irish uncle

The town and its gangs tax each generation.
A lot foster pride and impulse, questioning nothing outside of pride.
Burnt out car carcasses and blood splattered graffiti walls.
To be lost with no aim beyond surviving the cheap hustle.
Pretending to be dead as the local shylocks muscle arrives.
Greedy for pain and greedy for a gruesome example.
Shadows for souls they past us as we lay hiding.
Lightning hit my conscience and I entered the mind of the assassin for hire.
I entered the generations of lost youth, going back to their humble migration.
Each individual son who almost made it to twenty before losing against a rival gun man.
Each son a tear
Each tear a street corner
A deep concrete lament for a hundred years of sabotage.
One simple Irish uncle now living a wealthy life with abundant love.
How did he do it, the question no one is asking comes out!
He moved out of the neighborhood and let his honor die with the next generation of youth that never learned to question.