Plasma

I had a friend tell me that war is the blood between our bones,
That it keeps us moving and
Without it we are stagnant. Nothing.

But I can’t see the light in night-drenched dreams.
And I’m sure that cannot be.

Peace is a cool kiss on fevered skin,
The silence when the false thunderclaps end,
The skylights holding a promise that morning will come.

Death is not pigments or science or molten gold,
The pillars of civilisation or the illumining crown.

It is blood on a child’s skin. Words that will never come home.
Mothers that will never find air to breathe again.

Peace is a sight unknown to my mind,
But it’s the only beauty worth believing in.