THE FLOWERS (for a free Libya)

War is the language of fools.
A jagged, jumbled alphabet,
Gargling in a rotten mouth.
Decaying arguments in the balance.
The world weighs heavy
On these scales.
Spinning gimbals struggle
In a turbulence of gales.
Good and bad are in a trance.
Nonsense and contrivance creaking.
Hypocrisy and muddle.
All these demons leaking
Poison from the human skull.
Synapses just cannot resist,
Too frequently delighted.
On and on the madness twists.
Shattered bone and splattered blood.
The bursting, terrifying flowers,
Bloom from bullet, bomb and blade.
Our garden paradise is blighted.
If only we could see this cull,
Is such a wasted, bitter harvest.
We would do more good,
With hand and spade.
Let’s turn our weapons into tools.
Contradictions still persist,
Seeds will grow but the rats devour.       © Will Barton 2011

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