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A Quiet Orchestra of Death

War is a symphony of silent horrors
played by a quiet orchestra of death,
till no more sounds are again heard
in the whisperings of a final breath,

Its deathly hollow rhythmic scream
echoes in the colors of a heartbeat,
till the mind in the blink of an eye
yields a tearful moment of defeat,

War is a epidemic disease incurable
a fiery plague upon all life on earth
till nothing living is but a memory
inside the inane extinction of birth

where loving your neighbor surely
is nothing more than a wicked lie,
a nightmarish reoccurring dream
before life says one last goodbye,

War is hope’s revelatory end of days
drug of choice, evil’s deviate rush,
a potent lethal addition of battle’s 
fantasized ideas of a peaceful hush,

Its bloodstained tapestry of heroic
acts of valor betrays its only goal,
beneath fields of perpetual silence
replete with souls, brave and bold, 

War is a mythology of constructs
 where rabid acts of incivility reign,
a depraved concept, yet disturbing, 
whereof, mankind cannot abstain, 

A tragedy forged without winners
simply an errant failure to believe, 
confirmed by its lofty abstinence 
a true peace men cannot conceive,

War is naught but forged insanity
affirmed by humanity’s evolution,
a force which gives us meaning 
in a chaotic world of confusion,

Its a path to peace long forgotten
the fatal flaw of a righteous mind,
of young men’s forgotten dreams
lost in a battle to efface mankind,

War is a crucible ever relentless
an estranged unquenchable fire,
men will never stopped fighting
as of birth, in his heart’s desire,

an elixir of paranoid patriotism, 
a true malady we cannot forsake, 
baited by old wounds of distrust
mere vanity, selfishness and hate,

War is an inevitable remembrance
of a fruitless promise of real peace,
an historic sweep of our persistent
valiant quest that will ne’er cease,

a never-ending childhood daydream 
secreted within the mystery of love,
a gift of freedom borne of the spirit
from our heavenly father up above.

© Eugene Harvey


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