My fingers are dipped in comfort
As they type this.
Children, so many children and their bloody mouths and searching eyes
For their lost ones.
I am ashamed of making poetry out of war.
I am guilty, less than many people, I feel guilty nonetheless
My comfort-wrapped fingers
Their rubble-wrapped bodies
It is suffocating to smile in the age of internet
Spammed by the images of war.
I will sleep off my heartache
Tomorrow is a new day and apathy will never run out
It will never run out.
We are running out of time, we know,
It will catch up someday, war begets war
Pools of blood into lakes and rivers
Finally no less than an ocean
What are we, who can I ask?
What have we become?
Children, I cry for you. Children, we have lost.