a polite war...

It was quiet and well-mannered
as human destruction goes, non-intrusive;
the world goes on with little notice
of the lives sown like ripe seasons, and seeds
find fertile moments in the barren soil of world concern
where nations pose like vain children
with cameras on a stick.

A community of nations
watch as one bleeds its life
lonely, and suffering quietly
in the limn light, slightly off
the center stage, where the stars
shine inward and the set stays dark.

Such a polite devastation
so many thousands
and war fails to count the important things;
it is not about the heroes, they bring war home
but are not the cause. No,
war does not count the important things
like the rich that get richer, and the poor
that vanish, and the dreams
trapped in fresh mounds of native soil,
and bound in arrested histories.
Such a polite situation, fate of a hopeful nation
evaporates in fictional news copy.

In all the world, all the outrage, pauses
to reflect, the sounds of boots still distant
and neither does the past insist, for
it too was a polite war.