The Wrong Reins

About wars and hope.

The sky, marked by crimson dye

Of the divine tears from the kingdom atop,

Watches as the debacle unfold with its usual helpless sigh

As men become beasts and all sense is forgot.

 

The sharp call from the messenger of war

Blinds them with lust-for victory, for blood.

To win mere land mind, body and soul allowed to scar

And soon with severed limbs and broken bones, the land begins to flood.

 

It ends as it always does, with orphans, widows,

Wailing mothers and friendless survivors.

The others’ celebration, as the rush wears off becomes the curse

To be borne and thought of at night with silent, muffled cries

 

The young must prepare, for their time arrives

Not too far from now, it will be their turn to bleed

Born from pain, breed amidst violent vibes

The cycle goes on. Can’t no one see it’s not what they need?

 

As the sky begins to turn away dismayed,

It sees the two little specks of hope

Mount the ladder of reason, rarely used, for aid

To reach the broken wires of the fence that binds them with nowhere to lope.

 

“Never again,” the fair-haired child assured

She holds on to little brother and vowed

To go far away and never visit realms of war that inured

They had lost far too much and seen far too many to be cowed.

 

The sky smiles lighting up the horizon bright yellow

Perhaps a chance yet remains

For this rabid race to mellow.

It hopes and waits for the time when love-not lust takes their reins.

 

Author's Note

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