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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required For weeks I wandered, from one canteen to another, from one battle pack to another, seeking the morsel of food there-in stored. Mournful the wind whistling through the bones, and shattered dead, a ghoulish symphonic crescendo of finality, it was over, we must have won. Yes my side had won for I was the last survivor. "Sweet," was not the word for this victory. Walking on, and on through the towns and cities, I realized that those leaders had gotten included after-all. Oh yes, everybody had been sucked into the voracious conflagration. Crazy, yes, I was crazy for the visions of my travels began to change, and no longer did the torn dead people meet my eyes. Each day brought a fresh array of color with which to greet me. Now it was the flowers, which I sought, those survivors, of splashing color springing up through the rotting souls and bones of the deceased. An ever changing bouquet, every color, every shape, and I reveled in their proliferation. Like a new marching army they filled the landscape. A niggling thought started without bidding, and exactly when this occurred I cannot recall. Truth be known, it did not matter when it started, for what was, without refute, was the truth of its conclusion. Tears were my constant companion at this enlightment. “There is no winning in war. There is only dying.” The impact of this folly caused me to fall to my knees. Face-to- face with a Sunflower I asked the question. “Why do you not hate the flowers of different shape and color? Why do you not pull up your roots and march into war? Damn you, answer me. Surely you feel the sirens cry to set the world right for your kind? Where are your leaders to point out the hated difference, and to direct your cleansing efforts?" I became aware of the stupidity of my quest for these answers. After-all, everybody loved the flowers, and touted their beauty. Their enigmatic silence provided the answer, and I heard it clearly.
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