HURRY THE END

As some stand frozen in the frigid temperature

of their hearts what shall we do for that evil?

We do what we do well; we go to war remotely.

Power, power is a terrible thing

when it condemns them stuck in place

by the barren winds of war, starved of life.

Winds that starve the pained and troubled, cool the dead.

We find it easier to look away,easier to save ourselves

as  one by one our companions fall to invasion, the red glare.

The opportunity seekers; political masters, wealthy pimps

who will never know until that at the last second of life,
as the death rattle fades, all are suddenly completely equal.

Everything after death is a show for them waiting impatiently

for the vacuum to suck them into the palace of power where
those who’d rule launch wars because they can; they have arrived.

Their increase is death over men stuck in sadness,

unwilling to go on, to fight for a good life, a kind life

All is empty of thought my hunger is eating the truth of war.

Death’s sting is no worry for the dead for the disheartened,

it is become a welcome thing that brings the warmth of the earth

where finally all that is, is without pain, or sadness, or this mad life.

Call me brother no more for I am frozen, naked and decaying,

slowly crumbling to dust waiting on them who destroyed my life,

to be my equal.

© M Durfee
3/8/2022