News

As the news plays
I watch along.
Playing on a box.
With thoughts prolonged.
A new death upon the sickle she lies.
Yet there will be no memory of why;
an activist was chosen to die.
We sit in our homes.
So safe and secure.
Fighting our own battles on the home front for sure.
Yet out there the fighting behind the lines.
Are these the signs of our times?
This pity,
this pain,
this outcry
of blood on the street.
What does it matter to us,
for we have food to eat?
Four walls that contain us.
Boxes of entertainment,
Only to change the channel of derangements.
As I look from the out side in.
It is not outside I see but the box with in.
That speaks to me,
Shows me the truth.
I am so silly,
searching for the truth.
Seeking,
in bed as I lay.
Yet another life
In the streets to slay.
Comfortable in my own little world.
A box of convenience’s.
In a little sterile world.
Churches banished,
Faith denied.
Yet it passes right before our eyes.
As those who are slain
we pass by,
for it is the blood of our own veins.
That pours down from the sky.