The breadth of this skin
lives by the whim
of what might be holy and true.
The art of this war
is nothing more
than what’s broken in brood.
Sent by the might
of organized sight
it made way for the night to solve.
With the dire and heated
amidst smoke, its depleted,
for strength in numbers prolongs.
Crimson is the color that sounds the alarm
for spirits cast off
into a cycle of what’s known and broken.
Peace is the heart of lives that matter
in the straits of
no known tomorrows.
Home is the life needed for all souls
sinking in the entropy
of unequal measure
Reparation is the movement
the much needed healing from perfected chaos.