War is a play,
A theatrical piece,
Readying the cast,
Before decease.

Props in hand,
Mics linked up,
To calm yourself,
Drink from death's cup.

A play for onlookers,
To watch and stare,
Ready before,
The speakers blare.

Before the crowds,
We are attacked,
A play repeated,
To reenact.

Dearest Australia,
How much you make me weep,
As we drown in sorrow,
Ash from the sky, knee-deep.

We wait for the war,
Against climates to end,
But we cry for help,
No longer able to pretend.

Our sweetest, dearest country,
A place we would call home,
Has become unsafe for families,
Unsafe to call our own.

We cannot keep the children,
Worry and stress-free,
So please help us Aussies out,
Please, Australia, help me.

There are so many things,
About our country we cherish,
But we just sit and watch,
As the flames engulf, as we perish.

Dearest Australia,
I need your support,
So help a mate out,
At Macquarie's Port.

I sit and look,
At children around,
Sitting, chatting,
Playing games they found.

I sit alone,
And watch them play,
Thinking about them,
In another day.

What they aspire,
To do with their lives,
Is currently ignored,
As this room thrives.

But I'm watching,
Waiting for their move,
To life, themselves,
They are trying to prove.

So I sit, listen,
Wait for them to act,
I’ve mastered this skill,
Attention, I will not attract.

A dilemma before a donkey,
Between two hay bales,
Teasing, tantalizing,
To choose, he fails.

Sitting and dying,
Perishing of thirst,
Because he couldn't decide,
Which bale to eat first.

A paradox they say,
Is this idea of free will,
A paradox they say,
Is capable to ****.

The hay is tantalizing him,
Tearing him to shreds,
Causing him to stand and watch,
The hay bales, 'til he's dead.

Getting a call,
At an untimely hour,
Of untimely news,
Causing you to cower.

Receiving news,
Of an 'accident', so called,
Sitting, listening, waiting,
Sat, listened, bawled.

A loved one involved,
A head on crash,
All hopes and wishes,
Put aside to trash.

News, not the good kind,
Not good at all,
And this was entirely thanks,
To that untimely call.

No matter what religion,
Or what race,
Or what name,
Or what face.

Through all the torture,
Through all the hate,
In the end we all,
Meet the same fate.

We are lovers,
Loving those in need,
Those who deserve it,
Who sit broken, they bleed.

We are friends,
Of the paper and ink,
Writing what we want,
With little time to think.

We are tenants,
Of a place we call home,
Writing freely in this space,
Which we wish to own.

We are dreamers,
We live in our heads,
Connecting our thoughts,
With thousands of threads.

We are poets,
Writers of the arts,
Sharing deep secrets,
From the deepest of hearts.