Splinters of ash
Washed upon my shores
I play with castles
My fingers bleed
Up until it rains
A little child, he smiles
Just for a while
The sound of rockets
A nation bleeding from its ears
The whole world’s perched
Atop this distant hill
Six billion eyes all on one hill
Six billion tongues, six billion minds
And yet we’re so alone
We rush to make a change
To kill, to steal a life from someone else
The bullets seep into our flesh
A million rounds, a million aching wounds
They hurt so much
They leave a mark forevermore
We make the headlines
A bunch of media whores
Fucked over then forgotten by the war
Tomorrow morning the sun will never rise
Our world will seep into a deep surrender
The printing press will fabricate some lies,
We’ve won the war they say,
And yet this hill has lost so many lives
A million bodies stacked from head to toe
A living sculpture of our own demise
They sent us here,
They cheered us as we fought
And now they’ve turned their eyes away
Some look upon a burka in disgust
But they themselves are veiled
Behind a thicker curtain
A sheath of fiber optics, media bites
A stage, a prompter, cameras and lights
Objectifying wars with gory lust
And counterfeiting peace to suit their needs
They are no different
Sending us to fight
Against the very horrors they incite!
——————————————————————————–
Character: 51/100
bohemiaspeaks 
Cuts to the heart … this is an amazing poem. The line “a living sculpture of our own demise” got me. WOW. :D
I love the first stanza.
I like how it builds and explodes (with imagery and emotion) in the final section. Nice. :)