By Tom H. Brooks 3
The machinery of Death
like a bloodthirsty beast
it mercilessly tramples the land-
it keeps us in its laser sights.
Death and destruction
covers the world in a black cloud.
The bombs drop
the missiles seek their targets
the bullets fly with deadly trajectory
the suicide bombers scream
their fanatical chants of execution.
Dismembered bodies torn asunder
eyeless skulls in a death’s head grin
rivers of blood.
The hopelessly sad
death of innocents-
collateral damage, why?
To kill a puppy
to stomp on a flower
to crush a butterfly…
oil, money, power, religion-
what purpose does it serve?
Nothing…nothing at all-
to extinguish happiness and dreams
of a peaceful world.
This is the war machine
into which we were born
with nothing but battles to fight
and mountains to climb.
The world boils over in a cauldron
A peaceful white dove
lands on the skeletal branches
of a bare white tree-
a cold wind howls ominously
across the land.
A long , dark winter is coming.
Hear the thunderous drums of war.
The dove, as if sensing danger,
ascends into a limitless blue sky.
Soon, I fear, even this harmless creature
will be blasted into a cloud of white feathers
by the meaningless spectre of war…