Museum of Lost Battles
Everywhere there is rubble.
Charred beams stand where walls do not.
Bricks litter the ground.
The sun and the rain fall
in places best left protected.
This is what hate does,
how anger, inflamed creates war zones
out of sanctuaries,
determined to end the beautiful things
once loved, and with an intimacy no enemy
could be aware of, snipe your most vulnerable places,
crumble your walls,
render you rubble,
a war zone, a museum of lost battles.
You were always beautiful.
You still are
for your beauty lies beneath,
in your foundations,
left alone by a foe who never looked
beyond the walls
About this poem
I bet you know someone like this. Perhaps you are someone like this. You are beautiful.