Talking to Walls

I've been talking to walls lately,

reviewing looks as children die.

Has the world woken up different,

or they ain't dead anymore?

I never know when to let things go—

do you let such a thing go, though?

Where do they go?

The dead and disappointed,

conveniently eliminated.

What can any of this mean,

and why are we caught up in it?

Preach about love, but you only operate on hate.

The big bang boom

was such a waste of it all.

The Earth—she laboured for aeons to build each rock and land.

We just drew borders with pencils and guns.

Blood is such a simple thing for us.

We forgot what the point was at all.

At home, I've been talking to walls,

hearing the same thing over and over again.

We've picked out countries and picked our sides.

There is no right, there is no wrong.

These walls—they have arguments for all:

for all the blood, the pain, the slaughter,

for all the lost sons and daughters.

There's an argument for all.

So I'm talking to these walls

and hoping for an answer for it all.

I watch the odd rains of the odd times—

strangely calming, yet chaotic in its turn and blow.

I write out this part lament, part indictment, part confession to these indifferent walls,

as I talk to these same old walls with cracks in them.