The Morning After

Someone said there is no actual life,
only what we remember.
One more war has ended
for a country that has seldom
known peace.

Our politicians are like a teen prostitute
Who sells her body cheap,
Who struts and markets
Her girlish delusions,
Her temporary, quite ordinary,
charms.

She can never go home, though,
Because they remember who
She used to be, and
their own failures,
and are ashamed.

Perhaps leaders should
be made to swim in a cracked
swimming pool in a silent suburb,
filled with the rotten blood
they spilled to fuel
their greed and corruption.

But who fed along with them?
Who shares the guilt?
Who else can never
go home again?