This peaceful interim
Is only an illusion
For the memories of our
Forefathers are fading
I feel my life
Lacks conclusion
But the answer of war
Is wrong
We are stupid
Fickle creatures, and
Narrow minded, angry
At others for telling us
We're so full of greed
And we are.
What we need
And want should be lain apart.
Our impulse to fight
Is unnecessary and naive
We create these monsters and so we
Must help them heal.
Else it's just a great ticking bomb
There are not much worse games to play.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
