Fading Lines

A strong wind
blows volumes of dust
to bury the bleeding torsos.  
 
We evolved
from a history of violence.
We emerged
from acts of violence
in tattered rags
and tainted spirits.
With our zealous, shining weapons,
we wiped out
forests, tribes, races,
and species.
We stole
rainbows, 
laughter,
sunshine
from entire generations. 
The need for peace
is a foil.
The call for arms
is a recurring theme.
 
Like the fate
of epochs bygone,
the terror
will not descend from the skies,
it’s hardwired
in our flesh and blood.
 
Nobody
can save us
from ourselves –
not even
the prince
who attained moksha
under a glorious canopy,
or a messenger of peace
who entered a city
riding a donkey.
 
We sharpen
our knives and axes
on their altars –
stones
baptized
in blood.

With a single, nonchalant swing
of the blade,
a thousand heads
fall on the barren grounds.
 
Time
dissolves
in the purity
of the act.