Table of Contents
They crow over corpses,
grin from gutted homes
they claim as ramparts—
raise rotting banners
above splintered stone,
surveying flooded streets
like conquerors gloating
over vanquished dead.
Politics as pastime
curdles conscience,
barters breath for points,
scores sorrow in salt.
Some cradle lives
like cupped embers;
others stack the dead
like carrion coins.
Their glee grinds
like grit in gears,
scrapes mercy raw—
a chorus of jackals
gnawing the bones
of unburied grief.
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