Season of lambs
This is the season of lambs,
Those cute innocent lambs pure as water,
sent to slaughter,
A season of deliverance, from sin,
deliverance from bondage foreign lands within,
Blood smeared on lintels door posts,
blood from hands washed,
Yet in blood a rebirth,
I’m a wordsmith, words are my trade,
a multilayered tapestry the head and heart have made.
Words to make you think,
words to make change.
words like the sweetest wine
enticing you to drink.
Words to lead to other worlds,
in verse and sentence flow,
Words planted in fertile soil to allow the mind to grow.
I’m a wordsmith, words are craft, my trade,
Come view the tapestry that head and heart have made.
I was 12,
‘Shock and Awe’ ,
my first images of war,
fire lighting up the night sky,
I was 12 at the time,
yet I remember hearing of sexed up dossiers,
claims of WMDs,
and I wondered why.
The invasion, the devastation, prisoners tortured,
endless stories of death, why?
Casus belli was built on a lie,
instead of uncovering weapons of mass destruction,
we uncovered weapons of mass deception.
Unleashed, Sectarian conflicts that never cease,
did we create a desolation but call it peace?
Time made me more sceptical,
Like a 12 year old we grew worldly wise,
yet the question remains, why?
A war no-one wanted,
2 million marching for peace through the streets to defy,
so why did we go to war, why?
With one button, he became death, the destroyer of worlds,
Silencer of spoken words,
eraser of words written.
barren as a lunar landscape.
He destroyed what was, what could be,
Not a structure standing, nor a blade of grass.
Not a trace, his destruction complete,
With one button, he pressed delete.