Piecemeal destinies

New dawn, new day, the fortunate ones 

wake in their peaceful worlds—luxuries 

of stability. In faraway realities, peace 

implodes—helpless beings scatter—pixels 

on screens, crumbling under trauma to maps, 

geographies, whirling in the vortex of exodus.

Those basking in peacetime suns rush

at first to channel pain—copious offerings

of thoughts, tears, prayers, promise of succour, 

before the gradual withering to apathy begins.

Those who have journeyed on the sands

of this microcosm long enough know

how souls grow inured to suffering—

benumbed, compassion-fatigued, 

how hope can wear thin—an atrophied relic, 

growing threadbare over a lifetime. How easy

to be resigned, quote dirges of history,

its horrors playing on repeat, brutality

of humankind compounding with every epoch.

It is powerlessness, to let shadows of what 

has gone before snuff all conscience now—

Stand up once more. Do not turn away.

Smooth old scabs, weed out tendrils creeping

around jaded hearts. Stand up one more time. 

Even in rancid darkness, believe breaths 

pledged to stars, chart piecemeal destinies. 

Look beyond the rays of your fortunate sunrise. 

Do not turn away now. Do not turn away now.