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.
Copyright © Sarah Ann Jullion | Year Posted 2024
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