Inner Peace And The Sound Of The Electric Saw

from where i am seated
beyond the fence of this old ground
they that do not mind the murder of peace
keeps on sawing what wood is left for the hands of this world to feel.

the roots cannot grow by themselves
when all the leaves fall when all the branches are cut
this greed for furniture this amassing of rails and stairs and door jams.

i am seated on a piece of ground without grass.
this is what is left of me in the middle of my quest for peace amidst this chaos.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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