What is Peace?
A poem —
Peace.
Is not a string of apologies,
Hanging upon a thread of trite ideologies;
But rather a sacred name upon foreign land,
Shuddering in its every stand.
Not a gilded dove during the arid breeze of winter snow,
Carrying hope across what he doth know.
Like the redness of a poppy against the absence of light,
It merely coexists with what is right.
Fought by the battle of sacrifice,
And cherished by the bounty of our memory;
Not a metaphor clinging onto acres of tragedies,
But a silent whisper called journey.
Ancient scripture written in vain,
But holding its tongue all the same.
For peace is not what is sold to us,
But rather grappled by an army of inquiry;
Chased upon the unforeseen until all reality
Demolishes the blood worth battled against the uprising of fallacy.
But peace is hidden in the petrichor after the storm, something profound yet anew,
And in all the faces that stand there too.
