POETRY

You taunt me.
With nostalgia
for what I remember
it might have been.

Your arguments.
All make sense.
but why do I always feel
your scriptwriters' zeal?

You keep going on.
I don't want to read.
You repeat, pointing
to my craven logic,

parting the curtain
of atrocities,
of stupidity, nonsense,
although voyeuristic.

Almost as if I am
under the interrogation light.
It will go away, you whisper
only once I've begun.

Oh, War! I should know.
Eons that you've honed
your hysteric's techniques,
your spear, carrier and gun.

But I'll tell you this.
As an unfortunate Bard
I've also seen the mess
you haven't yet left behind.

Oh, your reasons are fine.
It's your blithe that I fear,
the nonchalance you drink
like a rancid old wine.

jam11