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| Just A Story |
| I feel the water over my hands, gently washing the blood of thousands, that I can't see or know, but I know their stories, twisted round the war pole or accident. I have no tears for the thousands, just recognition of their deaths, accidents or not, it matters not, I am not cold, I have no connection, so that mayhem lies not close. Perhaps I should find a feeling, for all the faceless victims in their agony, or at least a warm shroud, to paste into my heart as it beats, and so, find some comfort in that. There is the confines of religion to bear this weight, but it cannot praise blood and starvation, nor feed the helpless and the sick, comfort mourners in the very throes. There is only news in cold print, that sells with the hawkers heed and cry, of the latest bold war, accidents in scarlet colors twisted, and shout the very lives into just a story. � 2000 DPMcClellan |
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