The world’s gone mad, it seems to me.
We’ve lost our heads and cannot see
it makes no sense when those in need
must bear the blame for corporate greed;
and how can it be right that some,
a few, have much, the many none?
The world has truly lost the thread:
it honours those a century dead;
yet, even as that silence palls,
somewhere, another ‘hero’ falls;
as men fall dead are widows made;
yet still we love to dig a grave.
In this is not our madness clear?
Were it not so, then we would hear
the words of those who went before
and, fighting, spoke the truth of war;
and then, I think, we might despise
the adman’s specious, mawkish lies
and those hawk their souls for gain
by selling chocolate in the name
of all those men who shed their blood
for love and peace and not for goods;
and then, perhaps, we’d plainly see
the lie they call de-mock-krassy:
the world is now as it was then;
if we must fight, it’s us and them.
Abigail Wyatt writes poetry and short fiction from her home near Redruth in Cornwall. After a lifetime of sticking her neck out, sometimes she grows weary of the fight.