The Love of War
Tears, like rain, stream across the world.
Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters; tears of joy and of remorse; tears of fear and of sorrow.
Each speak of another language
hate, love, anger, despair.
Comfort is fleeting
a cool blanket that provides no warmth
no softness
It is as if the Mother has recoiled from the children,
fleeing from them in distress and regret.
Her creations are dying,
soon all will be dust.
None shall survive,
the unending spiral of desolation and anguish currents across the lands,
spreading like the black death,
grasping and clawing its way
into the hearts of the people.
No one is spared.
The innocence of children is being corrupted,
the love of a mother ripped
from her gentle hands
and torn from her open heart.
The eyes of fathers are becoming glazed,
unaffected to the horrors around them.
It surrounds the people,
becoming second nature,
soon to be first.
All that was good,
all that was love,
becomes blackened;
tainted beyond recognition.
Wonders,
beauty,
and kindness
become myth,
a thing of fairytales.
Wrong and right become distorted,
until one cannot be distinguished from the other.
Death, already,
has consumed the grace of the Mother
within clutch odium
and hopelessness.
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