TATTER OF THE TIMES

A cloth is no longer one
If its shredded into pieces,
Because the fragments don't hold
As to make a garment.
That's what happens,
When time is mutilated,
And life's fabric tears,
As the impact is ignored.
When the cry of the next person,
Is greeted by the groan and sigh of a war child,
When bombs rain on men,
And teargas smoke poison their lungs,
With no fresh air to breathe,
As all the trees were cut long ago,
And what is left is a scorching sun,
That brazenly burns with venom.
Its rays becoming hotter ,
As ozone layer suffered the same fate.
And so we bake as in an oven,
Crying of our circumstance which won't go.
 Mitigating the effects by holding conferences!
And nothing good coming out of it.