A torn, dead parasol caught in callous winds
Without escape. A terrible event this reminds.
Achilles, warrior of the Iliad, with a heart
Swelling with grief fell from the grace
Of his old ways. Around Troy trace
The lust of revenge, vengeance, to start.
Chasing understanding in a war torn reality
Keeps us from living. Fear of brutality
Leaves a chink in our armor strong.
I know it wasn’t a matter of right or wrong.
First to violence survives in the end
But there’s no life to live in pretend.
Did either Achilles or Hector survive?
Walking separate paths to a funeral blaze,
Stuck behind the jaws of Cerberus forever.
What did it prove?
Today we sit on Mt. Olympus
Casting judgment from thrones.
A shifted paradigm of the opus
Called Humanity. The divines
Who never see thorns on roses.
We still have miles to crawl on uneven cobblestones.
The path is uncertain; will we see before we turn to bones?