A poem for Apathy

Like a brick wall welcoming an oncoming car,
you too stand in the way of progress, leave chaos in your wake.
Turning one, no, two blind eyes.

Founders must be turning in their graves,
who stood tall in headwind, truth to power, beliefs unshaken,
voice immune to rhetoric and lies.

Oh, Apathy, it took a thousand years to get here,
yet you swung your foot once in an ocean of spite,
our sandcastles crumbled.

Across oceans we watched Washington burn,
watched an island whose bridges we built, float to the sea
praying, words fumbled.

The death of our mother is looming,
yet we draw her blood to power devices of war,
No worries, there’s still Mars.

We mumble and fumble, try to make sense,
confusing strong language for action and change,
while the poor preserve water in jars.

“Maybe next time” we say, but do not mean it,
maybe then we will learn from the wounds in our hearts.
Maybe, just maybe we’ll fight.

While innocents rot behind political bars,
we never read more than a headline, apathetically stating,
“next time, surely, it will turn out right.”

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