War, Would Be If... Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

the babies, their skin
party balloon thin
the babies, dusted
with concrete and death
at these throats
the torn and jagged metal
hurled from nonchalant
sky- ripping jets

while he who sits alone in
cold and white alabaster rooms
pouts, that bland kabuki mask
artfully arranging a
bouquet of colourful dooms
he sits and plucks
at brittle petals of treason

overlays his crazed angles
and mad theorems of hate
with slick-soft reason
he sits in rooms, heavy curtained
that keep out the light
and at his feet would have
God on a lead to turn will into bite