I am dead,
but do not weep for me.

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

the dispossessed that walk your streets
homeless and lost
hands held out for some morsel of change
or maybe just a kindly word
or a glance of recognition.

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

emaciated waifs
clinging to the tattered robes
of their mother
flies buzzing round the fetid sores
that pock their melancholy faces

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

pathetic souls that huddle
in the rubble of their homes
scratching at the ruins in vain hope
of finding those lost in the onslaught of
Nature's wrath

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

the lost children
who will search in vain
for those nurturing hands
and soothing words
gone in a hail of lead
scattered in a blast of revenge
to splatter the faces of these innocent ones

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

your regrets
your mistakes
your knowledge
that you stood by and allowed
these assaults on humanity to continue
day upon day
life upon life

I am dead
so will you be
and ask yourself now
who will weep for you?

Not these.