You run from the suffering
Becuase it takes the air out of the room
When you open the window to breathe
Remember that relief

Yet there’s no air in the room left for them
The window won’t open
A child screams as ash fills his lungs
Concrete falls against his back as he yells
For his mother
Who is already dead
This boy
This young boy
His tongue severed by his own teeth
As the concrete falls upon his back
There is no air left in the room

We run from the suffering
Galas for guns
And the ugly escapism of trying to contour
some imagination beyond their dying

They still die, no lavishness will change that
No modernity helping us to “reclaim joy”
To understand the meaning of life
To let “art win” or “art change”
Ask the artist to revive the dead child
His dead mother
Ask them
Why do we keep asking them?

We have worshipped glory
And died the ugliest death

We have distracted ourselves with politics
Thinking that’s what decided whether we live or we die
All the while
they’ve killed our children
And our doing does nothing

This is a sodden death
With a happy smile

But I’m not smiling
So ask yourself why the evil is so glad

These numbers you hear of are not just a figment of our imagination
They are your children
They are your family.

They are, they are.