Missile in the School
Bomb the hospitals, banks and orphanages - why not?
Anything goes
when shame is gone.
Nothing else matters
when the bottom line is gold.
That baby-face is no angel.
Oh you, the sweet ones,
now lying unburied in the streets,
your travail is done.
What’s left,
alongside the doomed, dying
and those ordained to survive
are but biped hyenas, vultures, rats
on borrowed time.
Avaunt their gold trinkets -
their heady perfumed reek of death.
The beloved ones are either far-fled
or mercifully withdrawn
to pure spirit, in otherworlds.
Ah me! Ah us - those left behind
to witness, count the cost and grieve/celebrate the passing
and release of the heavy burdened.
The weights still left to carry
of acceptance, peace-making and, some-impossible-how: to forgive,
let go.
June