It's been two weeks since you were all so concerned
I've become a talking point.
I'm a metaphor now.
I'm a political point.
I'm a poem on newsnight.
I'm an article to be shared.
You're still aware of me.
But you've moved on.
I'm just part of the general anger.
This political movement that I helped create.
I couldn't even bring down the government.

But I'm still smouldering.
Still hiding the bodies.
There's still posters up near me.
Faces that are probably unrecognisable now.
Lives destroyed.
Hearts broken.
Families destroyed.
Gaping aching holes.
In a few weeks only a small part of this world will remember me.
But for others I will never be forgotten.
I'm an inferno of a butterfly wing
A murderous sea change.