When War is Done

Oh, my poor, poor, suffering son…

What made you think your war was done?

Not for you, no, not for a while.

Not as long as you still breathe –

that’s not War’s style.

No, he’s not finished with you yet;

he lingers to revel as you fret.

What your blinded eyes cannot see

is his deep, abiding, demonic glee

as you curse the unseen dawn.

Ah, no, my child; War has not gone.

He watches you pray for relief in vain

avidly savors your exquisite pain.

War chortles at your agonized cries,

inhales the essence of  your anguished sighs.

Even while you draw your final breath

War devours the nectar of your death

as you struggle up from that living hell

where your tormented spirit dwelled.

Unsated, War snarls at your release

as Death allows your suffering to cease,

so he hurries on his rapacious way

in ravenous search of still-living prey.

Warm light illumines the cold, still air;

it seems Someone did hear your prayer.

The nascent glow begins to increase;

is it possible you have at last found Peace?

© 10/15/2008 Thurman P. Woodfork