WILD AT HEARTH

On the day that David Lynch dies, news of Wildfire
As war as the burning bush batters billions into submission
As each living ghost is home stunned. The earth is against us,
It seems, as even momentary Ceasefire ceasura’s
Before starting over, as books, hearts  and objects
Are boulderised, bitten, and in this story every flower
Spits fury and the air itself becomes gun. Bad luck?
Or smite smote by some  further forces, glaring at ground
Long corrupted; tormented too, so take that!

An eruption to claim the cost caused by transgressors,
While so many innocents suffer.  This is to make the guilty
Feel worse. It falls flat. As the wrong people always escape.
The unquestioned live and learn nothing. While those left
To answer have each of their own appeals cast
Into their ghosted home, across ash and the dust of dreams
Dashed by the unsteady stare of the morning daring them
To continue, knowing that all they once won is now nothing
And that nothing we have ever lasts. For the grace of God then,

Go we. But isn’t it God who did this? Does such random
Punishment merit a sense of Justice sent from some star?
And why does it let the wrong wreak their chaos campaigns
In all weather? Where are the winds when we need them
To blow out candles ablaze and soothe scars?
Australia burns. And now Los Angeles also. Kyiv still,
Gaza, and hope for a friend who has had to watch
His home fall. Smoke clutters tears. Tragedy taints
The senses. When the phone melts, what matters.

And who is there you can call? I think of my friend
And his wife and their near nation of neighbors.
My life is built on paper. Were it to burn now,
What blisters; my soul, or their spines?

Fate appalls.

 

                                                                                        David Erdos 17/1/25

 

 

 

 

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