I always thought I never had peace.

Not when soldiers marched the streets,

nor when winter came harsh and their greed grew obese,

never when I met the stone grey faces of police,

and not when gunshots echoed in smog filled air.

But perhaps I’ve had too much of it.

I’ve always noticed how small things hold their own charm;

I remember the messy, undoubting pattern of Papa’s toolkit,

the worn-down instruments slung into a loose kind of calm.

The way the sun shines through the house finch’s wings,

dust kicked up and dancing through sunlight, over my palm.

I remember the smell of rain drenched days,

running barefoot into Mama’s arms,

the warmth of a mother’s gaze

that even the stone-faced soldiers couldn't disarm.

peace is a mild comfort,

living in the moments between.

Something that I managed to encompass-

maybe enough to smother the screams.

it isn't but i have it's falsity in abundance;

So for now let's pretend it's serene.