A nation's tut,
a bomb that's not incensed
but sensed
when the world blinks at poverty,
a momentory blink, as brief as a blindman's blindness,
in the plan of eternity.

Shadows from creditor nations
like bruises evaporate
to a vast cloud called night,
giving color to the eyes of skulls
that glow with darkness
as a candle does with light.

Starving babes watch chemical clouds
chuckle through the night,
kneading quiet dough of flour silhouette
emitted from dye-factories,
making ink for the bank clerks
who sit and cost count the dead.

The vanishing ink of voice
innoculates accountants against the dead
as they account for a debt
they themselves embroidered
with the effluents of death.

The distilled rain of darkness
tickles this camp with disease
like abortion gutter-grease;
its fluency in death spreads bruising freckles
that rob the eyeless eye of its twisted crease.

A nation's tear streams as
voiceless as a holocaust,
a holocaust of the poor
that happens this and every year;
a nation's prayer
that we turn off the gas
that "This debt's too much to spare."

A spiritual holocaust
attempted by the atheist filmmakers
on T.V;
they're banking on it,
to produce more holocaust pictures
where the actors work for free.