War

When women are slain with the men

A devil sets his foot on the sands where his lie fuels bloodshed of children young and old

Buildings become rubble and debris for the newspapers to show the severity of war

A mockery of the lives lost to the hand of bombs and nation for the proportionality of securities unknown or otherwise

Others who hath lived in the wake of such devastation they are new story tellers for the generations to come into their home wasteland

Poetry mustn’t waver

It must push others to stand who lost the will with the loss of their uncle’s death and the three children bloodied for men far away sitting upon their thrown from which bodies built its comfort

Poetry must be more than enough

It would be the words of which people of war torn nations could speak without tongues but make noise loud enough for the mountaintops to hear

Poetry mustn’t leave the dead gone from this world but celebrate from the things they did in life

When tyrants go unfettered through murder and genocide

Only free men who do nothing are the devils I speak of

When good men omit action they leave women and children slain bloodies with hospitals turned to morgues

It is the duty of free men to do what is necessary to move on

Poetry is the way on

Words are the way on

Noise is the way on and they will hear me