World Pieces | poem

The bomb killed twenty two,
twelve too young to drive.
(Still dying.)
On the coast, I hear it - blasted white caps
ripping flesh.
The fish they feed are dying too.

At his concert, Matty yells,
We’re proud to be from Manchester!
The crowd spouts roses, glow sticks,
and smoke. I leave - too dizzy to sing
or think.

Security stops me - checks my pockets
for bombs - finds
of the world.
Why do you have these? They scream.

I thought music would fuse them, I plead,
reaching and pulling God
from the smog, but they can’t see.
They stumble
and puff - too numb

to feel a heartbeat.


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