Love and war.

Love and war.

Even in the spit of death

When its stain

And foul stench

Tarnishes a spirit

That grew, in spite

Of the pain

In its soul.

As blind greed beget

A slew of hatred

And fear blackened

The heart of hope,

Stole cherished dreams

Away from the

Grasp of children,

Stealing youth

As easily

As candy from

Out of the mouths of babes,

Love remains.

It is in the blood of the living,

And in the

Final thoughts of the dying.

In death,

They do not keen for power

Or wealth,

But the whispered words

Of a lover,

A mother.

A child’s kiss.

The beauty

Of a rainbow,

Or the tiny footprints

Of a single

Red breasted Robin

Trecking

Through pure white snow.

The same journey made

Every year, across

Virgin territory

In search of food.

Watched from a window

Or a battlefield.

A free show

For the family.

A finer memory

Than a spray of blood

Splashed across the shirt

Of a friend,

Or the stink of terror,

That accompanies

The filth of a

Truly violent end.

A poison,

Pooling in the crucible

Of the soul.

Soiling the reservoir

Of love,

And purging the world

Of its saviours.

Such is the nature of war

And its creators.

It steals the fragile hearts

Of the unwary.

And the source

Of its strength lies

In the corruption

Of innocence.

Love is

Forever the redeemer,

And its power,

When recalled,

Remains pure

Deep within the heart of man.

It is a cradle,

For the foundling soul,

To feel its touch,

Even unto death.