The Table
#poetry
From The Meal We Could Not Make, by Son of Laughter
particularly the line "I know that peace has never worked before, but this feast satisfies the thirst for war."
Overcome, I beg and plead; I have seen too much feel sure, to truly know anything but that raging storm, that neverending war of selves that empties all my hopes of peace, that typhonic roar of rage that howls – that always has, and always does, and maybe always will. It never seems to relent; when have mercy's pleas ever worked to stop the bombs, to drop the guns, to intervene before the hurricane claims more, its appetite for spite consuming all but spite itself? Death blasts our bloodied doorposts; how can this little bread and wine in such a time be any victory feast? Oh my soul, be broken, like the heavenly bread that satisfies. Be poured out like the wine-dark blood; nothing more or less can fill the deep hunger in the heart of man, or quench its bloodlust thirst. Be given – do all of this not to be right, but to be for; to empty yourself; to be the peace that breaks the war.