These tragedies that war upon the screen,
These day-to-day reminders that all’s sick:
They cut into our vision as we dream
And lie within stale hearts. The silent prick
Of death we can repress, but not the waves
That fight like foes upon our passive shores,
Waging war where war was not. The graves
That time forgot and life always ignores
Call out for us to hear them; yet our towns
Lie sleepy in the certainty that fate
Always befalls another (volume down,
Lest we remember; best that we forget).
Were men to blame when Siloam’s tower fell?
In this: our hearts have helped to fashion Hell.

Published by Matthew Pullar

Teacher, writer, blogger, husband, father, Christian. Living in Wyndham in Melbourne's west, on the land of the Kulin Nation. Searching for words to console and feed hearts and souls.

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