Love & War

• Olivia Williams, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2022

I will never understand the notion of love and war being the same.
To me, they have always been irreconcilable.
There is no love to be found on the battlefield, and if there was,
there would be no battlefield at all.

War is cruel; it chafes away at naivety and leaves resentment in its wake,
a festering wound that refuses to heal.
Some parade it, a token of their strength, but amidst the scent of gunpowder and death,
even the greatest victory is tainted.

Love, on the other hand, is veritable.
A spirit for the soul, there is no corner of the world unturned by it.
We see it every day, nestled into the cradle of a mother’s arms
or in flowers uprooted from the ground to deliver a petaled promise.

But then again, maybe there does come a time where the two collide
in some kind of sick ultimatum.
Because when this bouquet gets placed on the casket of that very mother’s child,
love and war look eerily alike.