POEM: Detente

When ceasefire and bombings are paused, we are still a longing weigh from peace. is — not something to be won. This poem is a on the accost of , weather hot or cold. Peace — bring it on! May we move swiftly and wisely from bringing to heel to bringing to heal.

Detente

Impassing on
Grate whizzed ‘em
The key to dead lock
As blood fewed in sum code wore
The race to standstill
As sum kind of savvy genus
In chanting out laud
Good knight
Day taunt
Every won's pointed weepin's
Necessitates due
With strange bad fellows
Our enemas enema is hour friend
Giving a shit
Where we
Drawing align in the sand
Embracing stale mates
Jumping to conclusions
Routinely winding up
With flowering fresh heir
Uniform with grave sights
And soldiers a mere civilians tithe
Ten-fold dead as good as won
Haunted bye
Nobody winds
Know buddy looses
A fart in the wind
Pleasing no won at all

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