Real World

endless young lives destroyed
by misconstructions of reality
— wars of all sizes.
To rise above,
to appear so large that wanton destroyers
must listen,
must stop and hear and understand.
Empowered creation
is so much more glorious,
smile uplifting.
Spiritual love is not about hearts and flowers,
submission to weakness.
Breath of pure air,
quench of clean water,
luscious, wholesome nourishment.
But mostly
love is about learning from each other
how humanity could grow.
I know that hatred surge of feeling securely
strong and right.
Bitter warmth on cold and lonely
solace through silent, empty nights.
Hatred comes easily to the spurned,
the deeply wounded
dying to emasculate shame of pain.
But true love is promise,
the hope of healing,
if only we commit harmony, to move,
oh so bravely,
through layered corridors of
defensive weapons.
Arm outstretch of acceptance,
interwoven positive regard.

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