Wrong Priorities

When all that matters,

Is the number of Goosebumps

That swamp your pale body

In free for all temperatures

How can you raise your heavy head again?

I heard of a far away place, I heard of many.

Where arms were raised, and shattered so much.

Arms of men, where wells went dry.

Arms of the earth, that shook like deranged fists

Engorged, with the reddest of mists, of the fallen.

You worry about numbers longer than coastlines

Piles of whinges, that can be dealt with.

Dry them out.

In time dust shall make you wealthy again.

You shudder as the knife comes near;

Its sharp enough to make you pretty again.

What is felled is the fat you ‘could not afford’

In the eyes of the vain, who stained you blue,

For far too long. And yet, you still listen. Admit it,

You plan to hug them soon, again.

Again? For Shame. Such abundant shame.

Even I, hang my head.

Shall I laugh or cry?

False choices, to dangerous to indulge in now.

I give this Land, whatever name it goes by-

Father, Mother, Whore-

Nothing but contempt,

 From the son it bore.