CURSE: AAMIE BURNLEY

The flower children hesitate and wait,
Watching as the climate seethes with war;
Their hope mislaid upon a gray and twisted world
Where those who do the work of faith are put to death,

We watch in horror at the shrinking good,
And wonder what enmity is enough,
While cities built with hope disfigured hands
Turn in upon themselves.
The ancient streets run black with blood, spilling
Like oil from the tortured bodies of the innocent.

Humanity gathers her apron
Around the harvest of the lost, and turns her back
On the wretched, meadow children
Now half dead, yet half reborn, stumbling
Into a dim remembered dream of peace
Made impotent by self-indulgence.

While those who dare to look beyond the din,
Into the naked core of reason abandoned
And beyond the empty rhetoric of the just,
Reach for each other, blind
In the dark realms of make believe
And hold their breath.

 

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