Famine - For Real

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I posted this poem about 13 years ago. It seems now to be more relevant than ever, so I'm posting it again.

The sinking sun is now undone, 
                       the sky is fading red
and shadows prowl neath cloak and cowl
                       for midnight lies ahead.

Beyond the heap, the honchos sleep 
                       with bloated bellies fed;
for, yes indeed, no one's in need,
                       at least, that's what they've said.

Amongst the ones that hunger shuns,
                       in day's retreating tread,
are spiders black ensnaring snacks
                       while spinning silken thread.

But as it stands, in conquered lands
                       a famine reigns instead -
and kids at noon, collapse and swoon
                       on stones they call a bed.

With aching eyes they fantasize 
                       and dream of gingerbread,
and after while, they wake and smile,
                       now dining with the dead.

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