The Soul's War-Play: A Wounding of Ignorance

The glint of sword, a mere theatre of play,

A burning keenness in the eye, for War's grim fray.

On soil stained crimson, each new line is drawn—

A cruel fortress raised at Ignorance's dawn.

This stage-set strife, no simple sight to see,

But of the soul, a deep and fierce malady.

A musket's crack, no common sound that flies,

But shatters dreams and scatters native cries.

When man's humanity, benumbed and cold,

Turns every thought, like stones, both stiff and old.

For Fear—a monstrous kraken—doth embrace

The void where Reason finds no dwelling place.

With weapon blunt, the fool's own hand doth wield;

The ignorant thus hold the bloodied field.

He that doth conquer sheathes his blade with pride—

A victory won, where sorrow doth abide.

But in the vanquished’s eye, a silence deep:

A tongue untold, that weary nations weep.

Who bears the burden of their whispered woe?

Or doth Time’s self this heavy sorrow know?

Peace's Defeat: A Rebirth E'er Renewed

Upon the altered breeze comes Peace, a blossom fair—

No thund'rous roar, but gentle, vital air.

A smile remembered, a bird within the mind,

No victor’s shout, but silence soft, entwined

With sweet defeat: a wisdom deep and mild.

For Peace, if built on Justice’s barren ground,

Is but a flame extinguished—no light found.

A lake without its waters, life’s quick spark;

A chilling silence born of winter’s dark.

My own defeat—a vision bright and clear—

That Peace without true Justice holds no cheer.

When War begins, 'tis not the fact that dies,

But Conscience, chiefest, falls before our eyes.

Ere man prepares his shot with deadly aim,

He slays the God within to win the game.

In madness of the play, his purpose lost,

But in defeat, rebirth redeems the cost.

The sword’s bright gleam that blinds the sight of man

Doth hide true Justice in its treacherous plan.

Yet within that shine, naught but Culture of Fear grows,

And blood spilled on the earth, its silence knows—

A tongue unwritten, for no book doth hold,

A solemn quiet, waiting to unfold

The voice of Peace, a hope devoid of sound,

Upon the very ground where strife was found.

Peace is not merely days when cannons cease to roar,

But a heart unyielding, standing ever more

Like a still reflection in the waters pure,

Or dignity’s own calm, a solace sure.

War ends not in defeat, but in its hush;

Yet that is not true Peace, but ash—no gush

Of song or spirit from a life now spent.

A New Tongue: The Call of Duty

From ignorance’s dark, where no proof hath been tried,

From blind belief’s deep dungeon, where lost truths abide,

Like a warrior bold, to the Light I now ascend—

O Light, do guide me, unto my journey’s end!

Beyond all this, in depths profound and deep,

When Man within his heart a new tongue keeps,

Then shall sweet Peace, in harmony, be born.

’Tis not a prayer, but Duty’s sacred morn.

Let not the play be War—but Peace, our defeat:

My own surrender, a prelude to victory sweet.

For there is Light—and there shall Man revive,

And boundless Life remain, eternally alive.