Tears Won’t Wash The Red From Our Dying Tree

Beautiful blood droplets that splatter on the cold dank pavement

There used to be life here, but now all that remains are the blood red caricatures

Like chalk drawings at crime scenes – and they were once alive

And the air smells like black – devoid of the sweet aroma of blooming spring life.

 

The world is a dying tree, whose bark is stripped to make coffins

And like in the fall, crumbling leaves fall to the ground, whispering of death’s advances.

The world’s inhabitants return to the dust from whence they arose,

Buried six feet deep, under grass and dirt,

Umpteenth coffin in the ground screams unforgettable cries for help.

 

Ground is damp, saturated red

Tears are shed, but when does the madness end?

Crying eyes don’t produce justice, tears are shed in vain.

Eyes are blinded by the droplets, so that they don’t have to observe the problematic world state

Blindness won’t solve our problems

 

There’s no escape until we’re dead

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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