The Communion of Rocks

I was once drafted

Into a communion of rocks.

There was a war out there

Between various pointless blocs.

A war between rocks,

Rocks dumb and inflamed.

They fought with words,

empty words that blamed.

A rookie soldier, I,

Among leaders of rank nonsense.

It all seemed alien to me—

Somewhat touchy and tense.

And on the battlefield

Of halls lined with chairs,

Armies met across mahogany,

And oak and pine squares.

Rocks of all denominations—

Jagged, smooth, big and small,

Glared at each other

Eyeball to eyeball.

Then bang-bang of sentences,

And boom-boom of exclamations.

It was a foreign tongue!

A lingo of an unknown nation.

A language or battle cry—

No one understood a word.

There were pauses and periods,

But the meaning was blurred.

Yet everyone spoke it,

Simultaneously and separately.

Some nodded agreement,

Some disagreed vehemently.

No one attempted to

Figure a word that was flung.

Who was I to question—

A pawn on the lowest rung.

What are we fighting for?

Who are we aiming at?

What will be the casualties?

What will come of that?

Words were screaming inside me,

Gnawing their way out of my brain.

I numbed the seething agony

With an overdose of refrain.

I was invisible to the rocks—

A speck of dust at best.

Little did they discern

Of the turmoil inside my breast.

As I stood on a cliff

Of fiery, incandescent rage,

A question raised its hand—

Should I or shouldn’t I engage?

The inferno glowed bright

And spot lit a strange wisdom.

Something that could assuage

My deepening conundrum.

You see, the communion of rocks

Is a meditation of sorts—

Of sitting still and quiet

In a sea storm of retorts.

Of not getting lost

In a garden maze of baloneys.

Of keeping your faith intact

In the cacophony of phonies.

With a few simple scars

I came out of that battle.

Ready to be herded to the next one

Like simple, innocent cattle.