Endless War
 
The last seismic bomb 
exploded off the coast. 
The decimated masses 
scrambled through the slag, 
shuffled on their knees, 
cried in holy fires. 
But then a silence surged—
and surged, 
like pollen drifting high. 
The war had ceased 
at last. 
Under monsoon rains, 
the crowded skies 
were filled 
with undiluted laughter. 
People drank cheap wine, 
as the ozone breathed 
like God. 
Yet, some still yearned for static, 
and one more doleful strike; 
to obliterate the plains, 
to crack the world’s insides. 
But they’re just sluggish beasts, 
with perforated hearts—
they ache for constant war, 
with propaganda eyes.