to act like the blood and wound aren’t related;
deliberately blinding eyes as old age might do,
so as not to be a spectator or pursue,
thought ought not travel to heart, you pray,
for fear that all the talk is true.
to act like the bodies and the war aren’t related;
deepening bias and rewriting science,
continuity of the ideal that victory reigns through,
fastening hopes and dreams to fiction,
as if a savior didn’t die of crucifixion.
to act like the rage and the rape aren’t related;
a woman is made to bare children and make home,
but somehow her body is found in catacombs;
butchered, manhandled, exposed and persecuted,
she finds her safety in the locked unit, instituted.
to act like the prices and the corruption aren’t related;
because you can afford basic groceries and essentials,
no thought is bestowed to other table’s potentials;
neighbors go without what you never lost,
starving and masking it to every exhaust.
to act like the bribe and the man aren’t related;
deter and distract the public in a desolate campaign,
knowing you’ve removed their ability to question,
not only losing rights and liberties by suggestion,
but watching democracy slowly be slain.
to act like the hunger and the greed aren’t related;
avoiding all posts, pictures and images of those tormented,
stifling consciousness screaming that justice is being circumvented;
soothing with addiction to shopping, drinking or adultery,
to stay sane in this age of dire perfidy.
to act like the illness and the cutting of government funding aren’t related;
confounding all knowledge of what is right and wrong,
ignoring the truths that are heard in birdsong;
avoiding what heart’s know is true,
saying that, of course, the sky is not blue.
Gracefully Written 