Twenty one point three.
Twenty one point three million.
Twenty one point three million refugees
Half of which aren’t even eighteen,
Forced from home simply because,
If they stay, they’ll be blown to smithereens
By bombs, guns, rockets,
Towns diminished to dust,
Flattened to the ground, crumbling, violent.
Thirty seconds is all you get to gather your possessions,
Before those with obsessions, to kill, get you.
Eventually, you’ll run out of water.
Eventually, you’ll run out of food.
Eventually, you’ll get sick.
Sure, you can cross the border,
But say buh-bye to your stash of cash
Because escape isn’t free.
And you have to pay to keep your name
Out of another person’s face.
Or you will get sent back.
You will be sent “home”
But is it really home?
When bullet shell casings litter the welcome mat
In an unforgiving smile that says,
This is NOT your home.
So a temporary homestead,
Is a better place to rest your head.
Teeny, tiny tents crammed
With whole families.
Access to water!
Dark, swirling, contaminated.
A pollution vortex.
Help thy neighbor?
Where is the love?
No safe place, to escape,
No warming hug.
Because we banned transportation
To “better this great US nation”,
And all the suffering souls will stay
Trapped for eternal damnation in their nations of Satan’s plantation
Their nations of Hell.
Yet some people still have the audacity to say,
There is no crisis, and we’re all okay.