Nicholai Vmir
Illustration: “War” by Alexander Kanevsky.
War
Where there was there isn’t. Tombs
audaciously refilled the Earth ensnared
in binds. She burns up vengefully.
Where we are now in compromise
from all sides pyres flicker off
drill bits which, driven down,
become blood tipped and
diamondiferous.
Bodies stricken, broken minds
are swept away with dust, once life
but long bereft of brilliance. War
that pummels us. Death urges
victors, liberates the lost,
ejaculates the desperate cry
at any cost.
Our iron veins drip silently.
Hearts cease to beat when
skewered on bayonets. Outdated
hatred manufactures profiteers;
they scorch the Earth grey, red,
and black.
Abruptly, like a coin toss, futures
spin and where they land, a will
is set to tempt the avarice of man.
Free trade of war for way of life,
a hand invisible to help, hacked
off, a rifle pegged in cents to tender
ivory and hunger, thorns of
concertina wire
crossed.
I’ve long resolved the war within
myself. Strike out.
The flagpoles bend and crack.