Ruins of God

This shadow flit street's not fit for walking,   
on unkind corners
torn down churches   
yawn stained glass hollow,   
windows smashed by bitter winds.   
   
A web generation's young flowers   
eke pale destiny   
their Gothic hearts strangled by winter,   
beating only by night   
feasting on darkness   
drip fed to future-less.   
 
The last of the milk
delivering human kindness   
spills congealed.  
With a sickly smile
we pull the plug   
fashionably denying  
ghosts of life support,
to ourselves. 
   
Now only the dead 
remember the war   
ten years maybe
is all we have left.
Is it ten years more
than we deserve?

Politicos are not admiticos
when nobody talks truth   
lying habits die hard. 
They say the end of the west   
may not be the end of the world,
so we mustn't give up
protesting silently, of course.   
   
Try telling that   
to the epidemic of cutters.   
Try telling that to children   
abused by Catholic priests.   
Try telling that to God  
 ~ whoever he was.