Sonnet For The Oppressed Poem by DM W

The blood of the oppressed has enriched many.
The war machine still tramples over the bones
Of the poor and the dispossessed, Does any
One care any more? Most live in cosy homes
Far away from mass slaughter. Perhaps they are
Anaesthetised! O it seems they only dream
Of fancy gadgets, pop concerts and fast cars.
On their screens, they only hear the silent screams;
Which do not remain long in their memories.
They are distracted by habitual ways,
Quick fix systems and glossy ceremonies.
It seems, they merely exist and drift through days.
Meanwhile, the wider world is at breaking point
And evil flowers grow from neglected soil.