When Everything Is Lost

My pen, as though wounded, bleeds, Who on earth, its blood-flooding sound, heeds? Tabula rasa papers turn pregnant, Messages of peace-brim-filling excitement; Midst clanging of shiny swords, Who witnesses the wounded words? Poetry is for lunatics, they say, Might moves mountainous sway; Blood should paint the world maps, Dead should adorn the scull-caps; Shells should illumine skyscrapers, No podium for poetry-papers; They march forward with philosophies such, Though fear within, deadliest weapons they clutch; Like monsters and vampires they fight, Many, to Hades, take their flight; Peace-poems, often, become wraps, Of their not-so-hot-potato chaps; My wounded heart, together with my pen, yearns, Insane humans to realize their hate-churns; Having battles lost and won, Laurels of pride, heads adorn; Losing wife, children, friends, kith-and-kin, Sensory organs, like neon gas, brunt within; Those survive try to trace and read the peace writings, Die, ultimately, in perennial musings...! 28 March 2022