Peace of our Time

Unborn children will fight the

Wars of Dead Men.

A Time we've been waiting for

Begins at the End.

We will see their hands

And the blurred suggestions of each face

Spell out this despair to the point of numb apathy

And still so many more everydays.

We will see no more blurs, feel no more hands -

The Promised Land is a wasteland.

(Is there escape

when

All our demons and angels have

already rained upon the earth?)

2 June 2007

Here instead of all other lost children.

Why do we do this to ourselves?

(There is an escape,

And it is not from the earth.)