Campaigns of Terror

morning, your slight turn of

fingers to fists, anger always biting on your lips

this pain, eases up from the heart, levered on faith & freedom

peace always came with a price, but not the one the world propagates

true peace lies pooled in the passive, in the strongest of the softnesses

agony lies in the sound of broken doors & guns drawn & a child left bruised upon the floor

* * *

title me as your terrorist? what Terror is this?

to close my door & pray?

to speak kind words of the unkind?

to sing to a patient God who watches, even now in his quietude?

I can feel the lies upon your breath before you speak them. They are crawling out your throat & dripping down your chin in some black-thorned ivy of misery.

Terror is the raid, that came crashing in, guns drawn, as we were thrown against the wall.

Terror is the threat of my children dragged from their beds in the warmth of night.

Terror is an accusation of hate when all that exists is love.

Terror is the accuser.

* * *

Can I weep, like some warm spring wind charged with rain & thunder?

Can I hold my breath just a little while longer?

Can I rip from my chest all truth & love & hope?

Can I close a mouth murmuring pain in a world filled with those who grope—anguish topped high on their battered sadnesses?

Terror? Here, in my heart, in my mouth, in my faith?

Show me. Show me my crusade. Show me my violence. Show me my fist raised, or even my voice. Show me my anger. Flash it back equally upon me.

But no. All that is there, is my soft voice. All that is there is my open hand. All that is there is my hope. All that is there is a soft song. All that is there is warmth.

I gave you that look, the one the moment before the strike, the one that asks in silence for you to put down your anger.

But I felt the blow before it fell, that fractional moment being the real pain.

* * *

So the crush is swallowed & burnt & see, the smoke rising to the heavens, sweet & silent. The blue skies darkened only ever so slightly, the birds picking over what remains. I sit, very very small & still there, in the grass, a scatter of wildflowers swaying to the whisper of my praying—

How beautiful, this world. I can see the restoration just there, over the hill. I can feel the breeze & there is a smell, like after spring’s first rain, welcome & startling. Familiar & forgotten.

And you, you are truly forgotten.

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