to breathe in us,
wept the paint.
It needn’t strike the stiff and crafty strum
of a tyrant’s impatience,
mourned the brush.
It must turn its very foundation; humanity,
to free its fettered soul,
wailed the easel.
It first must conquer the self to invent an escape
above war’s red casualty,
moaned the canvas.
Peace will never be created through war's shrapnel
upon the scorching sand,
shrieked the art!
No more war...
No more war...
No more war...
No more war...
No more war...
No more war...
© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
