They stood over the newspaper graves
And screamed of injustice and discrimination,
Tore their hair out in abashed indignation
As the rest of the world stood silent.
But new obituaries are submitted every day,
And the riot of the forgotten smolders
Under the decay in public wastebaskets—
Because there are always too many corpses
To cry for, but not enough mourners
To stand committed in remembrance.

The putrid scent of shame burned my eyes
As the cycling of fool’s gold worth in promises
Threw humanity’s dignity at my feet;
The only sacrifice I could offer in that moment
Was the martyrs I penned about beyond dawn—
The quiet kind of suffering that is never headlined
Of which in its anonymity is an abomination itself.

I am fighting the vines in my bones that are scrambling
For the faith I salvaged when breathing abated in difficulty,
But the affected laments of the removed, of the ignorant,
Drink up all the hope I wanted to save for the planet
I had no choice but to inhabit wholeheartedly—
But I look upon the plague overcoming the heart
And I cannot find the vestiges of sincerity, of depth
I needed so I could burn that white flag of surrender.