Listening.

 

Listening.

 

Whispers from wine-coloured moonlight have now
blighted old river grass.
No-one will pass by this flood's blistering chorus of
frustrated past outcry.
The waters stay silted with years-long, war-seared
bitterness as each ill-timed
Peace talk crumbled to finish killed by conclusions
of coated top-brass.

Dreams of the tortoise-shelled butterfly days faded
long before turbulent rapids
Drew young men and women toward battles over
nothing but misapplied fears.
Lifetimes float hormones along river-side history
as pride's facade imprints past.
Forces of folk press-mustered, taught naught but
to kill with blind allegiance .


Listening I hear victims' pathos as liquid weeps raw 
regrets for conceding to hate.
Wisps of blood-to-come days surface from tainted
ripples as no war sits easy.
What happens when, hit by flows of violence peace
can no longer struggle for gain ?
Reddened micro-tow of sacrifice rises from victims
caught and stored as watery genes.