Disarm

Shall it be the bomb that shatters the love we feel?
Shall it be the falling fury of Oppenheimers deadly toy?

The reign of fire gone mad, in a world where madness seems no longer
monopolised by those in asylums.

White doors and walls, white scrubs, is this where we will end?

My sweet children
your day has yet to come
while in so much sun
you’ve played thus far
the ripening of your very being has yet to complete.

Like the lotus we all grow from mud, from shit, from suffering, and out we spring so perfect, so precious, so ordained.

And yet the bomb, the threat, the fear, it’s there, under governance of the mad, or the average, or at the least
a system with never enough fail safes to cover human fallibility.

Iron dome, reaper drone, autonomous weapon systems, conventional arms, all ready, Freddy, to wipe away your life, your everything, your all, for naught.

And this is how our lives together could possibly end?
Your sweet little smile, all the while, growing from a sacred heart, a start, only to end, in the dogma of modern deterrence.

These things were not meant for our children, and the possibility of war is no excuse, for the threat of Annihilation.

Little children, your faces so soft, and clear of the worries we carry
live better
so that our faults can be disarmed
by your virtue.
Disarm.