I make stuff

Is there a flavor?

To break the bread alone,
Is it a crime you cannot atone?
Or is it graver
To starve down to the bone,
Or get blown by a drone?

In whose favor
May the neighbors wait,
For hours by the gate?
For that slaver?
By the rivers of fate,
On the boats of hate.

Could they feel the quaver?
With the families they freeze,
Or is it bombs that shake the knees?
Waiting for a saver,
Counting crumbs of cheese,
While the dead carry the breeze.