I dreamt of Peace, warm & tangible & soft, placed inside my small shaking hands. I dreamt it so brightly & truly, as if I’d breathed it wholly into my lungs & then, exhaled its majesty upon time itself.
I dreamt of finding the smooth warmth of peace at the dawn, the shadows stretched & swaying. How tiring War can be. Does violence ever get satisfied? Does hatred just never die?
What is the hatred for—am I worth hating so? Is my blood worth spilling? Is my mouth worth silencing or my mind worth quieting? What am I but a nothing full of dreams, hopes, passions, fears, sluiced with fear.
A small dream, trickled from the heart of me, and what of it? Is it threatening to dream of peace & sweetness & quietness & ask only to be left swaying in the shadows of its embrace unconsumed by the violence upon lips & fists & tongues & blades & guns?
Have I threatened your violence with my dream of peace?
Strange times to be sure, to be sure, when softness makes the strong quake with rage.
Can I look upon you eyes & not find compassion’s grace, can I not find love living strong there in your beating chest, can I not pull it from you with my own willing & tenderness?
How I dreamt of peace, ripe & sweet & there, fragile as a Songbird quivering in my palms & I clutched it gently, opened my eyes—
Where did it go?