empathy lies in tatters
like blood-soaked rucksacks
in a dusty crater
struck dumb of youthful chatter
Bombs for the children
profits for the pot
one hundred and fifty three tiny flames
extinguished
Truth traded like futures
justifications bought
cast into the oil-soaked dark
and find the seed-bed, prepared
where rage and revenge find root
amongst the limbs and dust
and those who hawk for war
cry for more
and tuck their own into bed at night
asking deliverance
from evil