by Richard Vince
It begins slowly, quietly, ominously:
Low, ponderous, rising to dissonance
And uneven rhythm before
Its true nature is noticed.
And suddenly seven years have
Not passed. Corpse arguments,
Zombie protests, have rebroken
The dark surface as I begin
To miss what I have missed,
Begin to believe the mythology
Of my own superiority fed to me
By one who treated me worse.
Friends and foes become
Indistinguishable as the identity
Of the true enemy runs out
Of hiding places, and yet the decoys
Continue to be sent up.
The world is smaller than it often
Seems, but what miles there are
Can be shortened as targets
Are found at last, as my world
Finds a way to move into theirs.
Everything is there if I delve
Deep enough before I realise I am
Doing it: I could just go, raid,
Turn peace into hostility on
The basis of an ancient dispute…
But, once again, I turn the bombers
Around, deescalate the situation,
Leave the innocent in blissful
Ignorance of what almost befell them.
This is another battle I have won,
But perhaps the war will never end.
The lion inside is sedated
Once again, but for how long?
Posted on 07/30/2019
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