The Parable of Peace

This time no yellow paint marks the shape And yellow does not mean coming home again My eyes were red Before the sun left the silver noon's height Red flowed in a rivulet From the bullets point of entry And draw upon the ground a pattern of death. I read murder in it A cruel act of inhumanity that must be repaid in kind To deter the rampant impugnity. This anarchy is too much now All creation is to be undone by it Unless reversed By the diminished power of men to kill. Two waves, opposite in direction only Disintegrate in form and will The horror on the ground before me. And if you make weapons You too have the same intent And only with your demise is the earth content.