suffering is currency;
means to sew in the seams, between
composed, of bloody fabric and bones
some goals achieved by joy-
but alas, humans we might love a good war
with cannon and gun
or a personal one in our own cauldron of hysteria
in our personal lives
boiling conundrums we contrive,
but the price
what might we have to hang at the door
repeating cycles ever the more
the faces of horror do little to deter
from black and white to color
repeating cycles ever to pace
the path to peace
that never seems to be- withstanding.

should I cry for the world? and lament, or put my head down, head phones on, and drone on, the fight is not on my lawn, least not yet, and not yet that long ago, 9/11 was on my doorstep, time does not heal wounds, it just makes people forget, and the farther away from events like a probe travelling away towards the stars- further each minute from mother earth, the problems seem smaller from these great distances, time is a heartless beast, all consuming, for even the joys of life get gelded in the end, I suppose that is what photos and trophies are for- and pins of stars on a uniform, how can you live in the moment when the moment is already gone… so, at times, I lament.