The art of war is a canvas painted
with the blood of our children’s lives
it is paint dyed with the colors
stolen from their dreams and futures
that will never blossom or bloom

it is the chiseled marble
forced from the flesh
stripped from their bones

it is the shaped clay
from the hole in the earth
where their bodies will decay

it is the blind writing eulogies in Braille
for all the mothers who will never again
set their eyes on the sunshine
of their sons smile

it is the deaf writing songs
for fathers who will never again
hear the sweet sound
of their daughters laughter

it is the end of the road
for all those who are lost
waiting for the loved ones
who will never make it back home

there is no beauty here
death does not sing of glory
death does not smile
for the fresh and never ending harvest
from the art of war

death...
my heart breaks for you
what a terrible burden
we place in your hands

and for what?

pride?

faith?

country?

who is killing who
is killing who is killing

who made the enemy the enemy
of my brother
and my brother the enemy
of my brother
and my brother the enemy

in what womb was the cord cut
that once connected us all
in what field did hate start the fire
that turned the world
into “us” and “them”

from what heart did the cold blood
first flow into the finger
that squeezed the trigger
that drew first blood

whose life was lost
to the first brush stroke
of the art of war