Photo by Hartwig HKD

I worry for my boys, and yours
in a world of knives and guns
and groups of boys
pretending to be men

Once they might have played
on the swings, or watched the stars
Instead they plot to win wars
on streets yards from their homes

All the while groups of men
also play at war
in pursuit of oil and coin
and distant enemies

As if the cries of a mother
on the other side of the city
in another corner of the world
don’t matter

The blare of gunfire
the rain of bombs
the streams of blood
aren’t on our doorstep —

So we continue blind-folded
revisiting the failures of the past:
the march of nationalism
whipping up fear

What matters, you see,
are empty mansions
trust funds and jetplanes
I’m alright, Jack

Not the old, young or infirm
not trees and the air we breathe
not poverty, sanity, equality
nor lofty ideals of a better future

Are they mad?

Control is everything
A reshuffle of the deck
means new winners and losers
Why throw the dice?

And I think of

And more
Always more

Those who would have led
beautifully long lives
but didn’t
because we failed them

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