Words

Promises put on display like flowers,
death gnawing at life so barely skin and bone
hunger's pain burning so deep into the emacitated flesh,
mind a haze of questions, too tormented to answer,
while echoes of dreams have all turned to hell's heartbeat.

Skeleton victims facing the end of sunrises
sobbing suffocated by the shear agony of helplessness,
no scent of hope left to fill the nostrils,
waiting mournfully, for the last gasp of need's terror,
ghosts of family already dead, haunting in grotesque forms.

Another scrawl of deliverance's assurance
trickles down form heartless power lords
through a stern, sadistic minion.
It blows away with a wind that fires
the veins with poverty's constant sting.

Night's coffin opens its dark welcomed womb
closing eyes, praying they will never open,
depression's pillow hardly a comfort
for the vanity of aid left as only,
words.