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Who gets paid for honour?

Bloody bandages,

Loss of limbs

That only skims

The surface.

Pornography of disaster

Or would you rather

Look away?

I no longer can.

Not enough time,

People to meet;

I always lived

On easy street.

But a man restored

Can make a difference,

Not just plaster

Over walls.

Already broken,

Soaking in the blood

Of those who came before,

No reverence paid.

But the calls haunt me

I hope that’s understood.

Published inAllegoriesAnthropomorphismSeeing Within & WithoutWar & Acrimony