Futility

The image of my bloodshot, sunken eyes
and mask of apathy.
Holds my attention as it flickers
into being on the television screen.
It exists in the pauses between
the news bulletins and my regularly
scheduled life.
It ephemerally blinks out,
overshadowed by the mundane
of the world.
My ears exist to hear the exploding liberators.
My eyes exist to be awed by the price of the freedom toll.
My mouth shocks others into existence.
All fail at their duty save my hands.
My hands do nothing.