The counting machine

The counting machine

My muse is eclipsed by a feeling, hearing

Murders of sacred beings discussed

By ‘clever’ people as numbers,

Same as slavers talking of their ‘cargo.’

We’re so used to hearing it

We do not think it strange,

Till someone we loved becomes a statistic –

Unnamed, unpictured, life untold,

Just a number.

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

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Though it made me a poet

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