Wait
It is madness isn’t it?
that the wind moves quicker than help. that windows are taught to shatter before they reflect. that a mother’s eyes can be an empty room. that the news cycle is always shorter than a funeral. that the cameras always (always) arrive late. that when they do, they ask for the light, the angles… ask for the English, never the blood. that silence is a privilege. that their skies do not rest, only reload. that there are children alive this morning that will be metaphors before noon. that right now, somewhere, a father is folding his daughter’s shadow into his arms, a boy trading his drawings for a shovel, learning the taste of ceiling dust because the sky broke open in his kitchen. because someone somewhere decided his house was close enough to a reason. that there is no logic to how one is picked. one child vanishes, another is scraped off a wall with a spoon. that there is a line for water. bad water. that a woman is baking bread in her sleep, sifting flour from bone. that when she wakes, there will be no flour. that the last bag was used to bury her girl. that grass is growing over IV lines, hospital walls. that a doctor is carrying a bag of teeth asking if anyone recognises the smile. that the convoy of aid will stop for coffee and sleep. that politicians will pretend ceasefires mean sending blankets for the dead, not the living. that this is not poetry, not essay, but inventory.
