wrapped in red ribbons and sparkles that blind

they drone on about war as if they were talking about stock prices

as if it were a bloodless event war when they should be reporting

that the sun has stripped the yellow from its flower in shame and

the rose has lost her scent to the emptiness of heaven

it’s as if the mountain still stands in its grief

as if the tide that pushes the beating heart towards shore has not

beached itself like a lost whale

as if tomorrow will rise with the sound of children laughing at the city park

as if the blossoms of a ceasefire truly exist

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