Apocalypse Song

 

     The human offering to war is quick,

Never fully thought through or negotiated,

     It is the dullest of symposiums

Where bombs blast the ears,

The body, limbs and head,

And it’s always bought and paid for –

Always money to protract

Its insanity,

     Always a labour force to

Manufacture the bullets,

Always a queue of fresh faces

To add names to each regions Cenotaph.

 

     The road to peace

Is often averted,

Always thwarted until

The bloodletting touches

The very heart of those keen

To instigate the kill,

     Then it’s hands around the table

And a toast to kinship never

Wanted, a false flag of hope

Till the next, and the next,

     And the next!

 

     What alien minds think of us,

What alien minds conspired to treat us this way??

What bribes have been offered and who gains??

I really need to know;

For where I am sat -

I do not see any winners in conflict,

     Just idiots and charlatans

Keen to have their name

In notoriety and Hollywood,

The places - ego denies an ‘id’

Once known as compassion

From claiming back the human victim,

And it’s glory all the way,

Glory till the Lark no longer sings

Upon an English morning,

Where there is no-one left,

To bury the dead.

 

Michael J Waite 11th April 2016.