Those bars of attrition are very, real
Where a life might only be monetary
Where survival, is counted in days
Not in years, and your very next meal
Has little nutrition, and feeds the many
And isn’t shared equally; in this malaise
People, children die, and so few grow old.
Their sky is a bone-yard of black-sunlight
Its gods own country, but it’s like he has left
And the lands a dustbowl, Oh Lord, behold
This plight of hunger you have umpired
Will this evil suffering be addressed?
It’s no Garden of Eden, but we do our best
© 2017, Mark Heathcote