The familial drone of mechanical applause,
. remotely drowned out by familial abuse;
. leaves my captive audience speechless.
. Their absent encouragement now rests in
. silent graves.
Black and white memories,
litter cardboard boxes; faces without names.
There is a remnant; This. Them. Us. We, the clattering sound of survivors,
. clinging to
. a work of God’s Grace,
The scattered number,
. given ashes instead of land;
. building on charity in order just to stand;
The grumble of dismissive spectators rumbles,
. “surely there’s something?”
. “it can’t be all that bad?”
Then in a gutted reprisal they’re told
. “for the little that we now have, we’re glad.
. But those that should have, didn’t
. those that could have, wouldn’t;
. and as the story goes,
. the little that was done,
. was only done for show.”
If it wasn’t for the inner workings of God’s Grace,
. where we’d be now,
. only heaven knows.
Artwork: John Martin, 1816
‘Joshua Commanding The Sun To Stand Still‘ – (Oil on canvas.)