Crossroads
The wind blows forward and the dust blows back with the empty howling of a thousand lost souls.
A crossroads here but no-one ever takes the turn.
The light always set to orange under the hum of anonymized electronic traffic, carried along wires resistant to the elements below.
Messages from far away in transit to distant over theres.
The traffic of a nation’s abandoned hopes.
These are the wires built to carry the agony of a mother’s grief for a dying son on a foreign shore.
The wires telegraph the loss of an infant, still in the womb.
The wires tell the world the strikes were successful.
The wires designated confidential.
We listen in but in our frustrated surveillance we only hear the binary outcomes of love and loss.
The ache of a father’s longing for news of his son.
The hollow update there’s no word of your boy Jack.
These are strands of sadness, pulled across oceans, heralded as innovation.
Once carried, nothing ever comes back.
I remember all they bring is death.
