Forever moments of the world,
In mirth must be, no pain reveal.
Once choice is made against the sword
its future threat will arch and reel.

Should shiny sheaths for long exist
To ricochet cascading minds?
What rises falsely in the mist
Shall cower light it never finds.

O why would one the weapon lift
If not to hurt oneself much more?
For every choice — a spirit’s gift
Of peace and love or rigid war.

Confusion is a rose’s thorn
whereby one seeks a moment’s lapse;
Discard thyself, become reborn!
And bloom above self-righteous scraps.