"War."
"Blurbed world is blood smear on white page,
metaphors useless thoughts impotent,
even the sense of days is lost in the raging militants.
No life other than political, the fact that family
and friends subjected to the general conduct
of this bitter abstract.
I look in the mirror to see old man looking back eyes creased,
squinting, finds nothing left.
He longs for significance, a scratch in the dust,
and odor of some faint fruit, some flower whose name he'd
lost.
Why would they hate him?
Who fight now insistently to kill one another?
Why not?"