To Sir

To Sir, or Whoever Runs the Universe: I’m here to say your vision appears flawed your choices bewildering and sad, The pure besmirched, The good disparaged as but fools, and the precious, oh so precious, Young of youth, lying dead, captured in war-for-profit Fallen amidst a distant country’s ruin. Please explain, Explain, please, Please do: Those white-haired plastic men ego-triumph-ant, contests winning won, with cameras flashing on wide smiles, reporters reporting them. Men who step quite meticulous and careful over smoldering city ruins dodging honor love faith and grief. Grief spilled upon ground stained dark red spilled and soiled deep deep very deep upon the earth upon mothers’ hearts. Your vision Sir, perhaps opaque? Your foresight limited in dim light? Or, perhaps a game bizarre you play, with rules chameleon drawn? Oh pray, Sirrr, pray please do tell, keep not silent do tell do tell Why men forget to be What once they promised truly true… Once upon a time they promised, but alas, forgot to be.