The whole world is burning,
and the smoke smells like
hypodermic needles and
dead children.
We are all desperately searching
for someone to take the blame
to stand up and say
'this blood is on my hands'.
But we are all to blame,
and that keeps us awake
wondering whose funeral
we will attend next.
Given the state of the world,
Jesus will come back
as a reformed heroin addict,
or not at all.
A good start with a nice poem, Aimee. You may like to read my poem, Love And Iust. Thank you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You write poignant and beautiful poems that are somewhat religiously provocative. I see real talent between the lines. Remain blessed.