The faults of man that make us drip tears,

feel pain,

wrench our insides with

crudely hewn weapons with

words so sharp;

so

impossible to create, yet,

we do…

…and

well.

 

We commit war

on ourselves, throw

death like bags of wheat

or rice

on trucks for the poor

evenly distributed

by lottery

by luck

by

plan.

 

It’s not my religion or

yours or

spirits or energy or

that spark of

life, that sense of who we are

who they were

the people who we knew and

will

never

be…it is humanity itself.

 

They lay dead before us;

our sons, our daughters,

wives, husbands,

fathers,

mothers.

It is not these things (now) that

sting our eyes,

souls,

make us feel loss and fear

death.

 

It is base humanity

and

our connection:

through blood

and

DNA and

history…the residue of war;

the inky black

stain that coats

our insides

and the internal reaches

of our minds.