A Tatter on the Heap

A rag in the wasteland

Cast aside

Children gather under it

Families fight over it

It keeps them warm

Cloth for them to wear

They build their homes out of it

But there is not enough to go around

To share

To cover cold skin-wrapped bones

Bare legs and arms poke out at the edges

The exposed masses gather ’round

With distended bellies

And dry blinking eyes

Pointing towards, searching

For the hand that discarded

This tatter upon their heap

Hoping for another

Waiting patiently like silent sheep

Before the shearer

Or cattle before the abattoir

They do not see

Or they do see

That their scavenged shelter

Is a blood caked handkerchief

They can choose no other

For they are beggars all

Those pale hairless apes

Washed their blood drenched hands

With this fabric before

It was home to the abhorred

They wiped off the blood of the parents

Giving the cloth for the children’s garments

Expiating their guilt

By throwing the infant rags

From a diamond encrusted hand

Can they bear to look?

At the children in blood soaked clothes?

Or at the naked multitudes praying

For even a corner of the blood encrusted cloth?

The hairless apes lurk in mansions

Spread across miles

Endless rows of pallid picket fences

Buzzing street lights

Empty roads

Blank walls

Full garages

Brightly-painted locked doors

Masking the lethargic beasts that dwell within

While in the wastelands

Their discarded excess and forgotten leavings

Are fought over

Every scrap saves a life

But there are so many more

Scraps

And lives

To save

Or to lose

To sacrifice

Or to abandon

To give

Or to take

To build

Or to burn

To hoard

Or to scatter

In the end your actions

And possessions

Will tell a story about which you valued more.




Sincerely,


F.L.