Poetry

I don't want any applause.
Think. think on
what I have to say.

The morgue is full. Still
the bodies were arriving, of
all the dead innocents.

The son, daughter, mother and
father and grands.
What rituals you want to do―

to honour the departed, or
praise the killers?
The rigged notes on paper speak of mendacity.

Between the primates, man
was becoming the beast.
The stone, sculptor and ghost are one.