Refugees lost for profit.

Refugees lost for profit.

What does it matter

The way words fall?

Random happenings

Are vaguely witnessed,

Collected thoughtlessly,

Wrapped in metaphor

And deeply pocketed,

Like a used napkin,

To sit alongside dirty money,

That is laundered

In the jangle of loose exchange.

Thoughts, in the blind

Of everyday currency

Become blisters

On the soul,

And on days when

Man is in competition

With the call of nature,

People founder

In warm waters,

Set aside for swimming.

As the shadows

Of the dispossessed

Haunt beach front hideaways,

Nothing prepares the poetic voice

For reality.

Who can explain

The true meaning

Of fear,

Over a flat white?

What can be said of love?

When it can be expressed

So clearly,

In a silent pause.

Invisible lives

Slip away

In the leech of darkness,

The inevitable

Soul search

Compounded by the gift

Of complacency.

As people who

Live good lives

Walk on by.

When we are alone

What do we do,

When there is nothing,

Not even a photograph,

To lighten the dark?

And the only words

We have, are too

Steeped in academic

Hubris

To capture the truth

Of a torn world,

Too mired in the daze

Of confusion,

To be so easily defined.