In moribund wards the dead are stacked
Like cordwood for a roiling fire,
For debts of pain are paid in blood,
And gaping wounds like flowers spread,
As flesh and bone is wrenched and wrought.
Produce for a rain of metals,
While gore in gouts, blooms crimson petals.
Righteous shouts from here and there,
Call now for peace, but also war,
Ring hollow from your echo chambers.
We’re wired for awe, and love and life,
But fear and hate sow death and strife.
No Maker would decree such slaughter,
Nor stand to hear such wanton laughter,
While those with guns and steely knives,
Reap their harvest of innocent lives.
Our solemn gift of thoughts and prayers,
Spin carousels in ghastly fairs.
Fuel for what? Our endless need,
To sate our lust for news that feeds,
That sense that we at least are spared,
From horrors seen on mobile screens.
We, the audience do play our part,
Complicit in our busy lives,
Spectators to unfolding tragedy,
That leaves us numb to our own humanity.
Liminal Dark, uncertain place,
Tells us now to choose a face,
From the Ancient Gallery.
Stand in light, don’t turn away!
And speak your truth ‘gainst endless night.
