War—
War is ugly.
The cries of the fighters
Meet the cries of the anguished.
(How easily the two intermingle.)
Life bleeds out upon the ground—
Or in the air—
To be lapped up by the animals
And absorbed by the plants.
The reds of rage
Meets the reds of wounds—
And the wounds weep
As the heart weeps
And the heart weeps
As the earth weeps.
War destroys so much more
Than what is before the hunters.
War sends echoes
Reverberating through the ages.
When will everyone hear these echoes
And put a stop to the cycle?

The writer pours his soul into being,
Letting his blood turn to black ink.
It splashes onto the pages and forms words,
Words that give his life meaning.
He sits back, looking at his hands,
His hands that created this wonderful work.
But then he pauses, staring in captive horror—
The words—his words—are moving—
Moving quickly—squirming—rising up—
Bunching together—swarming toward him—
They’re at his hands now—no, his arms—
His neck—choking him—darkness—
*Why?

It’s the dark creature crouching in the corner.
You know it’s there, but you ignore it.
When it first came, it screeched into the room,
Clawing at your face, your chest, your arms—
Anything and everything it could reach.
But you fought it off, somehow,
After a long, sweaty, arduous journey.
Now it just sits there, brooding in the blackness.
You don’t look at it.
You don’t acknowledge it.
But it’s there—you know it’s there.
You can feel its presence like a vortex.
And it knows you know it’s there.
And sometimes it reaches out a gnarled, clawed hand
And grips your clothes or cups your cheek,
And ice inches down your spine
And crystals cascade down your cheeks.
Soon the creature will fade from its corner,
But replacing it will be a hole—
A hole in the very fabric of the room.

The fires of war will burn
Deep within the heart.
Ev’ryone the ache of loss will learn.

The enemy we spurn—
Their blood spreads far apart.
The fires of war will burn.

“Bring us death, sir. Please,” the wounded yearn.
“We have done our part.”
Ev’ryone the ache of loss will learn.

The war’s at last adjourned.
Off the fields I cart
The fires of war that burn.

Soldiers pile up in heaps. I turn—
I list the dead in charts.
Ev’ryone the ache of loss will learn.

The past will ne’er return.
The conflicts always start.
The fires of war that burn
The ache of loss will learn.

The dryads shake their boughs in the cold half-light,
Their bright, faded leaves leaving handprints on the sky.
They sigh to the wind all their troubles and woes,
Their roots absorbing the wisdom of the Earth.
“Come to us,” they call to the bright-eyed traveller.
“Come and share in our universal knowledge;
“Listen to the croak of the frog, the hoot of the owl;
“Exchange breath with the deer and the lion;
“Remain as we are, everlasting far into eternity.”
Eternity is nothing to the dryads beckoning the traveller.
Their bark shivers in anticipation of the future,
But they know all will be well. “It always is.”
And so they crane their selves towards the travellers,
Hoping they will hear their everlasting message
And join in the blissful peace so oft deserved.

Pigments cascade down the canvas,
Coating the blank white with imagination.
Drip, drip, they fall with grace to embrace
The pocked surface beneath their bodies.
They intermingle, form new forms,
Yet continue to go their own ways,
Unaware of the driving force.

The artist stands off to the side,
Watching his creation swirl.
He created a storm, a beautiful storm.
He folds his arms, his face stoic,
For the pigments express his emotions.

The dust and grime and dirt and death—
The darkened gloom of corners near—
Invade the mind with waning breath,
Steal peace of mind with petty theft;
And lightless grins rise up and leer
Until you think there’s nothing left.