CONFESSION ZERO (The Weaver's Song)

War denies the earth’s grave rumble, her plea within my ear, an inescapable aria shattering the selfish walls of separation, thundering vociferously like a shot across my brow, eyelevel warnings of my use of her as creation’s tomb, my dumping depravity and brutality upon her affections. O! Can’t I cease this; my ceremony of bereavement? Bring an end to my marauding bravery before she weeps again, before I'm sent cowering, groveling for mercy and Love? It is of a most momentous weight that I conformed! I must join my bloodstained hands and begin to cleanse the dark spirit!

Syria, Afghanistan, Egypt, Israel, Darfur, Côte d'Ivoire, America, one seed, one family, searching for what’s been buried from view, pinched, squashed and hidden beneath the eyes, within the self-dug grave beneath a solemn verdict.

I, with my thoughts hovering in prayerless ignorance, lowering mass indifference to love underneath the loam, mourn of my self-blindness sunk inside my self-despair; peace and war colliding into the hovering spirits, never to realize the shame in annihilation. War is terrified of peace’s authority and fortification; parallel arms brought together, fists smashing in concert like a battering ram. They are meant to knock down my graveness, remove smirking war from my smiling thoughts, strip it naked that I might again allow peace to take Love’s hand and, like an animal, be content and indebted to simply being…