Photo by ChiralJon
“At least eighty dead,”
is all you’ve said….
As that charred colossus,
Grenfell, towers overhead.
The hopes and fears of those
you loved,
Dead.
Those missing, without mention,
who died, without dying,
who cried, without crying.
The faceless, euphemised headlines
that mask a thousand crimes…
“At least eighty dead,”
resonate in my head,
wrong for all the right reasons,
you spout your lies.
Eighty, as numbers go,
is neither high, nor low.
Uncomfortable, but palatable,
a lie to soften blows.
But those who know
the many trapped and screaming,
the burning and the crying,
the homeless and the dying,
they know your lie and cry
in the fetid night air,
to bring justice to bear
for the Grenfell nameless.
As flames and embers
light up the night’s sky
prunella-suited,
glitzy-gowned millionaires
sit down to dinner.
Sipping champagne,
they begin their campaign,
to move that tiresome Carnival.
Guards secured their “private” streets.
Gentrification, social housing,
maintenance, repairs.
Who cares?
Not the Council.
Not the millionaires.
Expendable people die cheaply.
“At least eighty died.”
“How dare you?”
They marched and cried,
as the anonymous hundreds
remained buried,
beneath a growing tower of lies!
(1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)Magical Lies Poems Great poems on Politics
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