We are weary of being weapons,
wounding others and witnessing war always.
We are waning.
We will no longer worship warriors;
we will wail at their passing and weep for the ones left waiting.
We want willows,
whispers of wonder.
We wish for winter and wolves and wild winds,
things worthy of wit and words and wanting.
I tell you,
we are weary of being weapons.
Share This Poem