Ink and pen, but who knows when?

bombs arc through the air
and burst on the ground
on roofs, on the houses
on the people hell-bound.

The city is burning
and peace that they’re yearning
dissipate into the night
and wither from sight

the mothers are singing
rocking their children to rest
as the chaos erupts
and sins are soon blessed

The gods turn to demons
and dance to the tune
of the death and the dying
and the promised, sweet doom.

A mother buries her child
among the debris
a candle burns softly
as it’s set off to sea

she cries to the silence
to the cold metal giants
falls to her knees
and then whispers “please”

Their pleads are the melody
their suffering the song
to those who listen
and ignore all the wrong.

They swallow their grief
and and hope it is brief
they pray with frail breath
for a quick, humble death.

For who would still want
to live in a place
where money and power
outweigh living fates?