Two battlefields are carved in asphalt gray,
Across the heartlands where the shadows play.
But on these fronts, the ledgers do not align,
One draws the gold, the other left to pine.
The War on Drugs is waged with iron fists,
With helicopters rising through the mists,
With tactical designs and heavy gear,
A funded feast of punishment and fear.
Billions poured into the steel-barred cage,
A lucrative and well-rehearsed outrage.
For there is profit in the lock and key,
And budgets bloom to guard society.
Yet steps away, beneath the underpass,
Behind the billboards and the shattered glass,
A quiet army shivers in the cold,
With stories of neglect that go untold.
No sirens wail to save them from the frost,
No tactical maneuvers for the lost.
Here lies a crisis, vast and deep and wide,
Where human souls are swept like trash aside.
The irony is etched in bitter stone:
The casualties of drug wars, though well-known,
Are far outnumbered by the quiet dead
Who perish on a concrete pavement bed.
The slow, cold rot of hunger and exposure,
A tragedy that never finds enclosure.
More die of neglect, of winter’s biting teeth,
Than under heavy law enforcement’s heath.
And yet, the vaults of mercy remain dry.
We watch the homeless gather, multiply,
But offer only pennies in a cup,
Too poor, we say, to build a roof or lift them up.
There is no commerce in a helping hand,
No empire built on giving back the land.
We fund the war, the weapons, and the chase,
But turn our wallets from the starving face.
We pay for cages, but we grudge the key.
We buy the war, but starve the refugee.
And in the balance of our wealth and pride,
We choose which ghosts are worthy to divide.
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