by Chris Jarvis

The skies over Damascus are silent tonight
as the Eagles of Death whistle through the air
and the Bataclan looks on, betrayed and manipulated.
A weeping cloud dampens the scarred earth with tears
and little splatterings of embers dance amongst the rubble.

In Milton Keynes, a fist pumps the air
as three hundred and ninety-seven ayes move to the right
and eyes all across the country
shut for the night
to avoid the sight.

In Aleppo, a boy wipes a tear from his eye
while rummaging through the crumbling foundations
of a family, a home,
a city, a nation.

In the dark, the Kalashnikov beheaders chuckle with glee
as they watch from the safety of distance
at their latest recruitment call descending from above.
Bombs, bullets, dribbling one by one.

Back in Stevenage, a poorly crafted
Christmas decoration falls from the tree
landing on the paw of the house kitten
and so mummy cradles the toddler
explaining why he’ll never come home again.

The skies over Damascus erupt tonight
in uniform and formation

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