The Stench of Death
What use is love for those whose hands stink of death?
What meaning does humanity hold for
those laughing through tears?
Where were the answers printed in gold?
Where were the guardians of hope on a day
when blood splattered faces spoke of a
madness that came home to roost?
We will shed two tears, perhaps burn a candle or three.
But who will wash the crimson smears off our common spaces?
Who will awaken our sleeping senses?
Stainless steel plates and plain blue chairs try
to shield a private sadness from prying public eyes.
Are you watching? Go ahead, step over crumpled
bodies, skewered limbs and satisfy your blood lust.
An eye for an eye you want in the vain hope that
you can sleep better then and dream of a world
where only the righteous punish the sinners.
These rivers of dark blood smear our foreheads
and drip from hands clenched in fury.
But who will spare a thought for those whose
stories stopped with a phone call?