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No, My Child. No.


After hearing the news of Usama bin Laden's death a child asks: Does this mean the wars are over? 


No, my child. No.

War has not been murdered, only agitated next to its grief. War needs its clatter of heaping death; a permanence feeding off the fresh fears held dear by a quivering flock.

War dresses as if it’s a great lover; a Don Juan looking for its next victim, wishing to remain the world’s top assassin, purged only as Love hauls it away. War, my dear child, aimlessly hordes flesh and bone; a marriage in disarray, bodies strewn about as if the sacred ground were an over-sized and filth-ridden couch, destruction, its violent spouse.


© 2011 by mark prime

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