I hate self-publishing. But sometimes I put up something that I know probably won't get published. I just found this in an email to my dad.
All over the city
the sky is relentlessly silent.
People dress for dinner,
put their kids to bed,
live throughout buildings
masqueraded as stars.
Still, the knowledge that war exists
pervades everything. Guilt
settles down on the innocent
so that even going about one’s business
becomes an act of defiance.
But the war is over.
A few men circle the main square
giving the illusion to the common eye
of a cast of thousands.
On the final day
of coverage, rain drenches
the desert like God
forgiving propaganda of its sins.
The camera lingers
on a bewildered face,
a wife knows before the phone rings,
before the words are spoken,
while men in turbans break down,
while a mother screams to emptiness.
Five thousand miles away,
even my own son is not safe.
And I can not bring myself to love
this world anymore.