As we lay down in the blood of strangers,
Our tired bones made from the dust of stars,
It would be so easy to just give in
To despair, refuse to rise up again.
Weary of television’s nightly dose
Of horror and fear and murder, we want
To hide away in some safe hole until
It passes like a nightmare on parade.
But this life is not a dream, it is real,
As real as bullets, as bombs, as sirens,
And we need to wake up, open our eyes,
To dry our tears with the ashes of the dead.
Our fears are as useless as our prayers, which
Imagined god would we offer them to?
The god of the killers and of the killed
Is one and the same and his name is shit.
This fictitious god who breeds hate too real
For me and the all men I’ve ever loved
Fades to nothing before the power felt
As I lay down in a stranger’s warm arms.
Depth Charge: The title of this poem is a slight modification of a line from an essay written by Isobel Bowdery, a survivor of the terrorist attacks in Paris, Nov 13, 2015.
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