Peace

By Shragvi Yadav

I wonder what a poem named peace would be read like,

Would it be green and purple,

Would i be able to see it 'cross my balcony settled like beautiful decay,

The sounds of black cars noising out,

Dreams grazing in the fields of devastated heavens,

My weight pressed against cotton sheets,

Something incredibly dead,

Blue roofs and grey roofs,

The bushes existing in an indifferent breeze,

Hands hanging through the edge of the bed—defeated,

Defeated of mediocrity,

I wonder what a poem named peace would be read like,

Would it be like that poem painted in front of me, slowly turning so black,

I don't want to see it get so black,

It speaks to me of infinite hope which i cant condemn,

A poem,

You can never force her,

She comes when you least need her.

The world looks pretty and polluted but I have no words,

And when in time she'd walk to me, the world would not be pretty enough.

I wonder what a poem named peace would be read like,

The grasses are olive and never green,

A poem that stinks of peace would always bleed a muted chaos—

A muted sleep,

A sleep so bleak.

By Shragvi Yadav