My Poetry

Of Mankind's Failure

I have placed my hand against the earth and felt the heartbeat of humanity. I have cut them deep and found their blood replaced with black poison. I have heard their secrets spill from their mouths, a waterfall contaminated by death, dark desire, and selfishness. I have looked into their eyes in the hopes of perceiving their souls, and found none. On their skin is written in blood their lies; every inch is covered with tiny words of deception until one may see nothing else.
I have stood in the face of carnage, observed fathers, sons, brothers, husbands, lovers, cut down in the name of glory. Their blood stains the earth and washes over it in a crimson tide, their flesh rots and feeds it, and their bones are claimed beneath it. To witness the blood and the mud and the horror, to hear the cries of the dying go unanswered and their last words unnoticed, is to begin to grasp the fatality of man’s existence. And for what cause does a common man die at his brother’s hand in the name of war? The scene is wreathed in printed money, and they fire gold and silver from their guns.
And I have borne witness to the signing of treaties and shaking of hands, to the declarations of, “No more!” and, “Lest we forget!” There is no war to end all wars until the war that ends all life. Until we kill our kind over dirt and paper and oil and rocks, and we crown ourselves with blood and build thrones from the bones of our brothers and sisters. This is glory. This is honour.
I place my hand against the earth and feel the heartbeat of humanity. It skips, stutters, and is still.