A small, black body, crumpled on the ground – the perfect picture of fear. The ribs protrude from the burned flesh, and even the grey dust beneath him seems to reject his tears of pain. A vulture watches his fetal position, hoping that his small chest will cease to rise and fall . . .  he’s been waiting for days to catch this meal. Maybe he won’t wait. It’s not like this innocent can defend himself. He couldn’t even keep himself alive . . . 

Black hair is curled into little nubbins atop his head, resting in the dirt. Hand in pathetic fists, his belly scraping the ground that once gave him food. A heart broken, not from the abuses of man, but broken by the neglect of nature pounds faintly through his chest – a chest pressed close to the earth . . . Maybe Mother Nature will hear it scream.

Where is the fantastic mystery?

When did we cease to dream?

Who will carry the sadden hearts, the awakened minds. . . 

these starving branches that find home in our fires?

We have conquered the world, enslaved it in chains. . . 

And we watch it die

                     Ignore the cries

Ignore the black bodies, surrounded by flies.

Where is the emergency exit? Why have we locked the doors?

                       We wait for the perfect moment

                       To snap our Polaroid view.

Let’s parade this sorrow on magazine pages, awareness will only take us so far.

This chaos was never a dream, it’s a forgotten memory.

And I’m choosing to live inside my tear-strewn world.

I’m choosing to give up my home made swords.

                I can’t break the bombs,

 I can’t hold the reins.

                This mud on my eyes told me I can’t see.

                                         But I believe these tears can still rescue me.

At least my mind is free . . .