Beauty and the Mess

Soot-laced hands, still shaking

offered loaves of bread

with fists closed, unexpectant.

worn shoes crunched the fragments of stained glass

that littered the smithereens with color,

the dust and ash now sanctified with dreams

as the sun beams over the shrapnel;

rainbows of defiance.

The air, still thick with the gray haze of smoke

held every

whispered

word;

songs of home shared between strangers,

kisses pressed into foreheads,

bandages fashioned from shirts

off of each other's backs.

Children drew flowers

on bullet-holed walls,

remembering the daisies that grew here,

before.

It wasn't peace.

It was the passing of water hand to hand

that began filling the cracks

with hope.

Beauty is the love that survives the war;

Quiet.

Tired.

But keeps holding you anyway.