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.
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