Peace
is not a creature of wonder or beauty. Peace is no butterfly. There is no grace
in Peace, only incubation. Peace is a cocoon into which a worm of Accord is
bound by lies and compromised promises. Peace is a suffocating shield that
hides Accord from prying eyes and good conscience until it stagnates and decay
takes hold. Within the festering remains of Accord something stirs. Clawing and
scraping, it fights for its life as all others soon will. In time, the cocoon
of Peace becomes brittle. An ill wind or cross word can easily fracture this
fragile cell. Too soon Peace is fatally splintered from without and within. But
Peace has done its work.
From the scattered
pieces of Peace emerges War, enraged. War knows its life is fleeting, so beats
its wings like drums until soldiers march in time. If War can’t live then none
shall. Where War soars, countries burn. Again it beats its wings to fans the
flames. Fires burn bright and no longer need War to stoke them. War is engulfed
in the inferno.
Down in the dirt amongst the fallen, a worm of Accord starts
to feed, storing energy to build its Peace.
You have returned, that makes me so happy. You are a smashing writer Tom Purton (your name?). Absolutely smashing.
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