the spoonful of full moon

its grace,
a marvel to trace..
its beauty reminisence
of thy presence..

greatness
in all its milieu
glory
with its ivory renew

of voices and echoes...

These voices of strenght
and meek,
these voices that prun silence
and spur distances,
these voices that crave,
to more say
than rave..
These voices that
are heard,
when inhibitions strike
the mid night oil,
these..
voices..
are..
bereft of..
hope..
hatred and brutality,
war in its magnanimity..
voices,
lost
and some
unheard..
voices..so unpredictable..
voices..
cry
and not a soul comes to soothe..
they burn in their ashes cold,
grave their live bodies..
kids and women and men
and brothers...
and then when all's done..
voices that heard in the silence
are voicing how it all should not have been done...