sunrise over swamps

sunset over melancholy seas

Poem 27 of 30

How long will it take before the tears cease?
Before the pain finally subsides and numbs and all that’s left is
quiet, and peace?
He is lost to me.


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Poem 18 of 30

The origin of war is the conflict within.

It is the one, the alone, at war within himself.

It is the first hint of hate seeping into a broken heart, penetrating the cracks and feeding the pain

so that every quiet moment becomes a meditation centred around

revenge and

pride asserting itself through power

and it overflows ever so gradually

into speech, into hatred

word by word.

And the words take on new force,

from words to actions

until the actions draw the like minded

until the hurt gather together

letting the pain flow out,

ever consuming,

spreading and drawing up

the unassuming into its violence.

The origin of war is the one who, seeing himself as great,

demanded the whole world bow down and acknowledge his greatness.



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Poem 15 of 30

We are the In-Between:

caught at the halfway point between death and life.

Halfway between the sadness of suffering and the joy of peace.

We see beauty marred by evil,

good tainted by filth,

and in sorrow we yet hope.


We are the Not-Yet-There:

journeying toward a bright point in a distant place.

We are travellers from an ancient land,

but we lost the way to our home.

So we fumble onwards

and wonder when the end will come.


Let us take hope in our low position,

knowing that the poor will be fed,

and the naked clothed.

Knowing that the innocent will be freed,

and the lost will be granted a guide

to lead them along the way.

This, the world yet to come,

is revealed to us in fragments and hints.


It is not fully here

but we see the whispers of it

with every tear shed,

with every time we choose

the path of peace.


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