i sit , my back against the apple tree,
rain coming down lightly, but the sun hasn’t given up yet.
oh, if i could only end my quarrels,
with my neighbors, the Warrels,
my life would get a long with ease.
if i could only carve a gun,
from these apple trees grown from the sun, then my sons would age without fret.
they could walk through the boroughs, and meadows with squirrels,
and my neighbors, the Warrels,
Rest in peace.
it’ll have a thin tube which you point,
and a scope which you might,
look down at your opponents with…
a bayonet I’ll affix,
a polished and honed stick,
gently secured with the will to inflict–
a tender plunge into black lungs;
it will be as sharp as the tongue
of a young Siren’s love, unsung.
if I could only make a grenade,
from the rocks of this shade,
I would fill it with malice and spite…
so when it ignited,
a detonation is sighted,
that develops the night sky with
detestation.
if I could only sculpt a nuclear missile,
from the strange breed under this clay, an ill crystal…
enriched until fissile, this peace-keeper will whistle,
and shine with the light
of the
sun