Undertow.

Undertow.

Whispers from wine-coloured moonlight have now
blighted old river grass.
No-one will pass by this flood's blistering chorus of
frustrated past outcry.
The waters stay silted with years-long, war seared
bitterness as each ill-timed
Peace-talk crumbled to finish killed by conclusions
of coated top-brass.

Dreams of those tortoise-shell butterfly days faded
long before turbulent rapids
Drew young men and women toward battles over
naught but misapplied fears.
Lifetimes float hormonally by in riverside history of
pride's facade of need for action
Forces, press-mustered are taught blind allegiance
to naught but mindless leads.

Listening I hear victims' bubbling exits still weeping
regrets for conceding to hate.
Wisps of blood-to-come days surface from tainted
mud as no war moulders easily.
What happens when, hit by flows of violence peace
can no longer struggle for gain ?
In reddened undertow of river-mud foes arise from
those caught up in sightless obedience.