Preaching to Myself in the Time of Destruction

Destruction takes the shortest time.
Places. People. Hopes. Dreams
A moment of pique and anger
and there you are, glorious rubble
and the feeling of power is complete and fleeting

And the building begins. Slow.
Slower still because all too often
it is the wounded rebuilding,
sifting through the rubble for old bricks.

The destroyers are not the heroes.
They never were good
for more than a moment
of bragging rights.

The survivors, the ones left
The ones determined, brick by brick. Builders of
places. People. Hopes. Dreams.
These are the heroes.

They get no parades. Few headlines.
They do not make noise.
They are too busy loving, creating
hope out of what was stolen from them

About this poem

About haters. About the cruel. About politics. About the ones who have no idea how to create, only destroy. They are everywhere.

But so are the ones that love.

Preaching to myself again. I do that a lot.

Tom

The photograph is not mine. It is legal stock photography. Taken in Southern Turkey.