There comes a time by Michael Peck

I am not a silent poet

There comes a time that we must look at ourselves for what we are and where we have been. Plowing over our dead beneath the ground, compost for the next growth of war presented wrapped like Christmas presents in glory, righteousness, and all the mumbo-jumbo created by those who never send their own sons and daughters to war. Never fought themselves except in the trenches of political campaigns promising glory, bounty, endless prosperity for the few. Never for those who are the collateral damage, those whose children die in the land of plenty of hunger and preventable disease. No, they are the forgotten, the never born ones who are never even spoken about or given names. The time is always now for change but change is bound by the chains of expectation and the plotting onward of what has gone on before. Oh, the beautiful lie of endless growth that…

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