my neighbourhood is burning down,
raging flames
caging lives
and i stand at the end of the street.
chaos is a pretty thing;
when you can’t hear the screams
or the cries
or the silence of the girl
held in her mother’s arms.
when you can’t feel the fire
kiss their bodies
and threaten to grow,
if you go near.
when you can’t see the pain
etched into a face,
you’ve seen so often wear a grin.
an all consuming arson,
paints the walls black,
and the streets red,
and your vision gray
and i stand at the end of the street.
watching people i only know
by eyes,
lose their meaning,
and lose their living,
but what am i to do?
i can’t look away, but i can’t look in;
i can’t bring back noise
to the throat of that girl
or paint the walls in color once more
or breathe oxygen
into their lungs as they give out.
guilt fervorously dances on my heart-
a hand reaches out to me,
from a pile of hands-
a grotesque act of hope
and because all living things are vile
like the ones who set the fire,
like the ones who ran when the smoke came,
like the ones who take pity,
sitting in their houses,
watching movies and music.
i take a step back,
and only just watch and shake.
i can run away, after all,
before i’m caught in the flames
and in my house
and in their houses and
arms and pile.
chaos is a pretty thing,
when you don’t stand,
in its centrefold.
when it’s a choice that you can mute,
and turn off and forget.
my neighbourhood is burning down,
and i stand at the end of a screen.
