As I didn't watch
Iran's prolonged defiling
on the fourth of March,
I couldn't sleep
from spring through summer
imagining the missiles,
The burn, the air,
the skulls, the mess,
the “they had it coming” affair.
War, I've read,
is resourcelessness
of the powerful, of fear.
If so, last I heard,
nailing to the cross
didn't change a thing.
I am ashamed of being
alive, or human.
I welcome now the change.
What matters is
certainly not money,
which doesn't exist,
but the memory of what was,
brooms sweeping over
ornate heaven.
Jam07
