Not much, but at least a place to die.

 

The faux heroics of killers obliterates their victims...

languishing, chained to the memories of those who wait.

 

Ignored in gleaming streets or broken in the ruins.

 

Automatons of death find them; their eyes show all to all.

A news clip, a gif, an empty revenge on waste.

 

Old men dine in celebration, "Manna and Halva from heaven"

 

The children starve, the children feast,

wringing hands donate, parachutes and reptile tears.

 

Not much, but at least a place to grieve.

 

The soil becomes a tomb the land becomes a monument...

to the last living room.