It's the day before,
the night before
Christmas
and around the world
something is stirring,
trying to wind up
a sense hurt and tension
and foreboding.
Trying to inspire hatred, too much to mention.
The world is aching,
she screams in rage,
at the pounding missiles
hitting her ribcage.
The death being borne
upon her skin.
Her surface is torn,
cloud tears drip
down their fluffy faces.
Dropping heavy, wearing down
her shell, now worn thin.
It's the night before,
the night before, Christmas
and huddled masses
stand at the door.
Nowhere to go,
no one will listen.
There is no hope glistening,
just angry flames raining
and bloodstained metal shrapnel
falling to the floor.
I see ghosts,
holding hands
with loved ones.
I see lost children,
with nowhere to run.
I see smiles fade,
and the blood red sun.
I see another night of bloodshed,
and another morning
with even more gone.
It's the night before
the night before
and there isn't going to be
a silent night for sure.
Not when all around
are the sounds of war.
The wails of babies,
the tales of fire,
told around the campsite. set alight.
So, let's not forget the plights
of those whose lives
are being lived
in permanent fight or flight.
Thanks for reading
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