Peace please give us a piece cut out from the heart of war.
Fair. Dark. Slice a center line and give pale peace to the world.
Amputated. The shadow possessing truth. Gradual.
Procession of armies toward a center that starts in the clouds,
while gray and full of storms, majesty thick enough to choke the world.
Grace grace expanding plumes of vapor. Peace and war.
Downed. Low. Hidden in shadow. Patriotism is like a torch,
it shines impressively more alluring seductive in the dark.
Deeply planted amidst fear, confusion, ignorance.
Eyes turn to the patriot, but with ease, when it is light,
eyes yield to peace. Pieced storm clouds looming,
lingered overhead, overheard mongering, malice beneath.
Voices talk of preparation for battle. Killing embraced. Strangled.
Too well by the shadow cast off of peace.
That good, light, utopian years increase a people’s fears. And stupidity.
That a piece of peace can be begged for, fought over, many wars,
in peace name.
This prayer, for peace and not much else, brings pain.
Like a storm carries lighting and wide-mouth thunder.
Strong roof rustling wind and of course, that shadow. Darkness.
Spread over the land like a stain.
Then, and only then, peace rains.