Shelter provided by a Bush

Grid-locked in
A market of wood and rubble.
Lives depressed into a temporary state.
It’s got so very late and
No one seems to take the trouble
To help those they made media out of.

A virus of blue.

Buildings turned archaic,
Feel wheezy, beaten and raped.
Left to decay and atrophy in a place
Where children are shaped.

Roads are pockmarked,
Cratered and shelled.
Neglect’s smothering blanket,
A neighbourhood felled.

A garnish of blue.

Life goes on,
People sit and converse
Go to work and visit friends.
The streets change with the click of a mouse
From shanty town to designer house.
Open wounds set a prevalent trend.

What is this? What does it make us?
To saunter through a re-creation
Of the screaming few in a priveleged nation? 
Can taste the metal, feel the wool?
While gnarled boughs and splintered shelters
Upon which hang souls
Surround us, fool?

We have no soul or window, impervious.
It took entertainment to hit me
Into doing something active.
Will i return to my activity previous?
Or will i ardently fail to see
What I can do to clog the siv
Of a world full of diseased ignominy?
Is this the best i can provide
In reaction to such a drastic divide?

Scattered sky filters through the sublime.
Attempts to apologise
For man’s inhumanity to Man.
Blue’s the fashion for the supine.
If they really want to help,
They can.

N.O.  L.A.