(Untitled) - Roseanna Freiburghaus

An old man sits at home
Bound to his chair
With wide eyes blazing
At the world in a box
The soothing voice cries out
Splintered by what’s behind words
Sending his heart to despair

The screams of a babe
Sink his legs to jelly
The cackles of the blaze
Shake his foundations
Anger wrenching their minds
The tribe attack
His heart stops

Questions reel
Images show everything yet nothing
At the same time,
How can this be done?
Why? Why? Why? Why?
Sickening to admit that
We’re made of the same

The pit of hatred
Stronger than instinct
Innocence devoured by flames
Ripped from arms
Into the teeth of politics
Shredded to dust once more

The old man weeps
Each tear 50 stones of
Weight that can never be lifted.
Storms of the past forgotten
The rain of today
Forms the lakes of tomorrow

Like tribes on tribes
Like Nazis on London
Like London on Germany
Like Lancasters on Dresden
Around in circles
Until everyone drowns in vomit

Because he flew above
Does that make all the difference?
That he was not the one
To see the flames lick their eyes
That he was not the one
To throw them to dust
That he rode aboveIs that all the difference?