Poems for the few

us

Do you hear me cry?

Sometimes I look beyond your cries

and stare behind your bright blue eyes

which is where I assume you fantasise

about our life after this biblical flood

about our life that will end with blood

But who's blood?

Is it that you are doubting this still?

And what deep pit of hunger that this will fill?

And who's life will be ended when we do kill?

How far will we have to run?

until we are under some distant and foreign sun?

But which sun?

At night I hear you screaming out

your voice growing hoarse from each sore shout

are you no longer feeling devout?

Are you starting to get cold feet?

About who we are inevitably going to meet?

But who will we meet?

Killing must feel good to God too

murder and sin and every taboo

what dark places his mind must run through

when he chooses what we deserve today

smiting the ones who do nothing but pray

Should we still pray?