Was it hope that died
when rifle shots blasted the promise of youth,
silenced the dreams of perfection?
The radio crackled, the valves flickered.
Heroes were reduced to the banalities of grief
and the leaden prose of eulogy.
Now these phantoms ride
in a bubble, thinking strengthened glass proof
against the drunken stupor of destruction.
Cushioned in posts and tweets, the absurd
washes away the vernix of infantile belief
to leave only power as our cold theology.
The journey from saviour to villain
remains a short road, well signposted
and heavily trod, a blood stained highway,
a monument to misconceived hopefulness.
So these bitter reflections are scattered
across my world’s shrinking horizons.
They are transient litter. They may scar
the view from my window but I am too far
from the place where the earth still breathes
and hope hops from step-stone to step-stone
in the froth of the raging waters.