And after the battle, the bombs still fall,
the need to punish, to destroy,
a hunger, a consuming madness,
the ability to build, lost,
leaving only rubble,
and at times even less,
the foundation pummeled
until there is nothing left to build on,
and victory becomes suddenly empty,
a conquering of a wasteland you created.
But I tell you this,
When the war is done,
flowers will grow here.
The survivors will crawl to the surface,
and, scars and all, they will build again.
They will learn to sing again,
songs of mourning, songs of hope,
songs even of love and dancing,
and you will be as empty as the wasteland you created,
with only your hate eating you from inside,
a voracious monster left with only you
About this poem
This could be personal, or historic, or current events. There’s truth in all of them, I believe.