.

.

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.

.

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(©RL2017)

Artwork: John Martin, 1816
‘Joshua Commanding The Sun To Stand Still‘ – (Oil on canvas.)