Never Know ©
Marc R. Sherland
The news is such, I think my art is vain,
As plumes of dust and evil smoke rise up,
I flick the switch, and raise my coffee cup,
Then watch them scurry, holding limbs in pain.
Grief of women, impresses on my eye,
But how much more, the men who never cry,
Reduced to floods, as if the dam runs dry,
When lists are all remains of them who die.
The wickedness of faith, if this be so,
Is quite beyond my ken, my poets' nose,
My fumble fingers, simply cannot sew;
How such a badness, nurtured, healthy grows.
More than innocents their explosives blow,
It is the innocence they never know.