in the echo of stillness

the rubble grows
as so many argue about
when molehills become mountains
*
and it is an apt analogy pondered upon
as they sit in air conditioned rooms drinking cold bottled water
so many buried under this tautology
negation in new flavors
*
house turned tomb
sleeping children
who never will awake
from last dream
*
yet still the bombs fall
this center of gravity
that absolute war demands
an abstraction
that demands daily sacrifice
*
to those who find reciprocation
so easy to justify
*
nietzsche tells us
the abyss can be a mirror
for those who wear
a narcissus mask
*
out damned spot
*
for there are thorns thirsting
to deeply drink from collective basin
that each night becomes
darker amaranth
*