War Poetry

Like blind men we grope at textures.
In a world afraid to touch.
We shelter ourselves from danger,
from life which could threaten us.

And then by risking nothing, we're risking even more.

So feel, hurt, and bleed.
It's the high road to understanding.

It's the jagged edges, that keep us questions.
It's the jagged edges, that keep us running.

The ones who with eager fingers,
reach arms out, out to caress.
They find that those jagged edges,
which pierced him have finally made him whole.

It's the jagged edges, that keep us questioning.
The jagged edges...