War - Poem by Christopher Teale
Death at the door,
The heavens filled with dread
Bodies sprawled across the floor
A child crying, his parents dead.
He holds on tightly,
To the only link of a happy past.
A stuffed animal, a teddy
He looks around aghast
Fear is but a shadow
O the true horror in his heart
Sentiment is shallow
When faced with truth
Where is the hand of humanity?
The race that praises itself so greatly!
The promise of our divinity?
Was it only an illusion?
How can a heart love?
That is not moved by pain?
How can it not be moved
By one who's hopes lie slain.
I rue the day we waged war!
That the children of men drew blades;
There is no excuse for war
Lest that child may ask: What for?
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