We all scroll past another horror, another
mother’s sorrow, a child gone off to school
who’ll not come home after shots were fired;
some unsuspecting teen knifed on a London
street, police at the scene, friends traumatized;
a bombing in an unjust war, a city’s
buildings smashed, yielding rubble that buries
the dead, displaces the living, and further troubles
the waters; the vengeful murder of an unfaithful
lover; some kid attacked for choice of outfit,
dying on the way to the hospital; lives lost because
somebody crossed a gang or safety measures
would have cost a millionaire too much.
We scroll because it’s all so overwhelming,
And our mental health has gone to hell.
How can we cope, or just go on? Does it
get better, really, or is that promise empty?
In a world of hate and greed and lust,
hope still flickers, but only just.
Copyright 2024
T. Allen Culpepper
Poetry When It Comes 