Earthquake (Death Poem)

Our so-empty lives are filled with pointless plans,
Every decision impacts life, and sometimes death.
The earth split - death was in that sometimes day,
Where unending need became the end of their world.

Montana was my home-from-home in Haiti,
Art deco paradise, an instant hellish grave.
What of my shoeshine man with dirty shoes?
Two hundred dead too hard, one is possible.

Little things we do to change the world,
The smallest possibilities in this nightmare,
Saving lives each day with lifeline texts,
Today we are the hand of God in hell.

poem by Ian Beckett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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