A Poem for the Incompitent
We cough up the blood
of our ancestors
Into silk napkins
not to be a part
of your pleasures
-
We tell lies
We want ourselves to believe
When in truth
We are too
Afraid to grieve
-
People are dying
While the rest turn a blind eye
We poke and prod
At the soulless bodies
Using sharpened stick
-
Ignoring the bombs
Going off right and left
We have already
Gone deaf
From the shrieks nearby
-
Listening to a local fable
Rolling your eyes
At your dear aunt Mabel
While her head rolls back
And then under the table














