Nerve gases are no laughing matter
as hundreds of shrouds tell, in pictures,
removed from this world where allegiances
lay in voting colours and voting districts.

Another brown spot on the world map
spills around the palette of our apathy.
Thousands today and another, and more,
But history tosses us in fracas of wonder.

So, a click on the remote, and it’s gone,
shrieks of pain, and wailing siblings, countrymen.
A tab takes the blood of our screens
into another page with a dancing Miley.

The dead fare no better, though punctured
in lace around the flesh: hollow-point lead.
War is peace, until the air sours on the breath.
Decision hangs the wise on a noose with idiocy.

We are here again, a decade-long sobriety
in the same pit, different boots, and piety.

 

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