I could be an illusion to you,
something so ethereal that
people begin questioning
what I really am.

Maybe I’m just a voice,
a bit of reason in the world
or just a conscience with
a body.

I could be nothing at all,
just a figment of imaginations,
hopes, dreams, failures, hatred,
and love.

You question my nature as if
you knew your own. You don’t,
you can’t even begin to understand
your purpose until you’ve suffered.

Until the world around you collapses
and is picked up piece by piece only
for you to hear each piece plead to be
reconnected. So it turns into a puzzle

you don’t understand, a puzzle where
some pieces just can’t fit with each other
but you force them together anyways.
Because if you don’t fix it who will?

And yeah, your pain and suffering
will lead you so deep within a darkness
that’s unbearable, unbelievable, and
cold. But that’s what you’ve got

to do. Find the darkness so you will
understand the light. I am a light,
willing to guide you, you’ve just got
to hold onto me and just trust

me.

When the train cand through
our little slice of the world,
we’d laugh when we heard
its whistle blow—long and

loud, like nights in New
Orleans—and how we’d weep
if the conductor ever died.
The stars would shine because

they have little else to do
on those cold nights. We’d
huddle together near the
fireplace and turn behind us

to point at our shadows on
the wall. You always made
your shadows into such pretty
things; I was too clumsy to

make anything beautiful.
And I wasn’t able to keep
anything beautiful for very
long, either. So when you

left, I didn’t really need an
explanation. Sometimes,
if I listen close enough,
I still hear you laugh

when the train blows
its whistle.

Life is capable of grand versatility;
there’s so many different ways to
end it. Yet, so few ways to save or
preserve it.

I stumbled over weapons left on
the field; the years have punished
them for their deeds, for the lives
they stole.

Men who made these decisions:
Gods, Emperors, Presidents, Generals; somehow few of them paid for it, but soldiers and civilians did.

They paid for the bickering
with their lives. How can men dictate who others ****? Where did this bloodshed begin?

Where will it end?

Not on this battlefield, nor will
it end on the one miles from here.
Not even on the fields that’ve stood still for a millennia.

When will it end?