Washed Up

So many dead people 

caught in the crossfire

created by the the money men, 

the arms traders,

the super ego-ed politicians.

They lie dead where they fell.

Flesh and blood transformed to 

fertiliser to nurture the seeds 

and grow the crops, in a future

they will not see.

Their bones decaying to dust

to form the building blocks 

of homes they will never inhabit.

Dying where they fell, 

over there, not here

and not looking like us.

Unseen or soon forgotten

by us here. 

But the dead washed up

on holiday beaches

look like our flesh and blood.

They’re wearing our clothes.

They’re washing up to haunt us

in the Old World.

Then there’s the living,

washed up alive 

and by any means necessary

moving on to bear witness, 

if any one is listening.

To bring the horror home 

to those who created it

in the Old World.

Bringing it home to the Old World,

soon to the New.



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