02 March 2007

The Price of Peace

The flowers melt in the field
Their colors fading into the background
Carried by the wind

The grass turns burnt umber,
Just like in the 64 Crayola crayon box,
Eaten by worms, grubs and crickets

The trees shrivel into gnarled knots of wood
Their branches splitting and falling to the ground
Swallowed whole by the evil trench around the trunk

The sounds of laughter are quickly clipped like fingernails
Replaced instead by discordant pitches of wails
Crushing the eardrums and painful to hear

The hopscotch squares are empty—its marker left alone
The marbles are scattered everywhere
With its cat’s-eyed shooter off in the distance

The jump ropes lie dormant by themselves on the ground
Just empty sneakers tangled in the lines
And their laces flung in every direction

The mind is hollow
No thoughts to fill its empty void
The holocaust of war—its price has been paid


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