War...
Just illusion, a monstrous nightmare vanquished
with a ray of orange sunshine upon the tongue.
Mellowed with God's own gracious herb;
fiery gilded hairs of Acapulco Gold.
Bob, our coarse prophet of peace's dream,
his sallow voice arrived on autumn's dry wind.
Janis sang with sad, painful screams,
lilting ballads of fated, melancholy sin.
Flower children swaying,
moving to a blaring din.
******, naked bodies entwined.
Massing round a roaring flame
projecting the awesome power of love.
Childish hopes, banishing the nightmare of war
to naught but a bard's sorrowful tale.
How might you spill your brother's blood?
Reclined together, ****** by the shore,
watching pink and purple penguins
as they frolic in a rolling sea of split pea soup.
Diving within the shifting colors for treasures of ham.
"Make love, not war!
Make love, not war!
Make love, not war!"
We were but children, playing with grand theory.
Alas, lucidity comes with old age...so-called wisdom.
Our dream was lost to history's dusty files
as warmongers dined within ivory towers.
To think...
such a simple design could end the horror.
One mass of chanting, ****** teens,
color blind, hands embraced as one,
man, woman and child.
Just illusion...
a drug induced fantasy of a dream.
And "The Nightmare" regained
it's baneful power.
© S.Loeding
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