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There hangs Guernica, covered and hid,
How many dying, wounded and dead?
So paints Picasso, shrouded fascists to rid,
How many lost, innocent names to be read?
Open thine eyes, great tribulation borne in this world,
Look to those Saints that rue man's evil and war,
Open thy mind, revealing lies, lying hidden and curled,
Look to brave artists who dare bare truth to its core.
Bullets and bombs are ne'er good for one's soul,
Brutal armies spawn death, spell destruction, where e'er they go,
Haughty Elite, Presidents and Kings, flagrant deceive us, we honestly know,
No matter the flag, no matter the anthem, no matter the goal.
Young militant men, ignorant pawns, taught to battle and fight,
Mislead by sneering Generals, delighting o'er spilled blood,
Soldiers tutored such dark arts, ne'er bathed in the light,
Thus homeward they march, spirits dashed by death's flood.
Lost souls, all dead and buried,
Enter Rothko, behold desperate black tombs,
Manage reckless, passing frantic days, so hurried,
Alpha to Omega, conceived then spent, in God's velvet womb.
War's beastly destruction, ne'er complimenting humankind with worldly good,
Create light with thine actions, replace horrid war's sinful plight,
Peaceful love is the Way, thus all mankind should,
Living life as God planned it, cleansing Life with pure Light.
Saying, Thank you, I love you,
Wondrous words bathed in Glory,
Meditate on thoughts far above you,
Healing words, that's the true story.
