They say the bomb resolves what talk cannot,
a clean surgery of ruin, swift, precise
and absolute, the way a fist will shift
the argument from reason to bloodied
silence. But silence is not peace, nor lust
for war a treaty. Watch the smoke black and
white drift above the rubble, and see the
perpetrators leverage for oil, and flaunt
their strength. The diplomat’s slow, steady
calloused art of stitching up concessions
won’t make the evening news, won’t stop a heart
with awe. So leaders pose, resolved. So generals glee.
And all the problems of the world are solved.
The bombs from on high have had their way.
The newly dead are someone else’s grief.
And from the start it was never about the lofty
heights of justice, no, it was about who gets to
be the new bully in the playground of the world.

 

4/3/2026