John Biscello

The warring, within,

ended. No one won.

White flags, adorning the masts of souls,

became the rage

and pacific vogue.

Ghosts kissed demons,

demons kissed children,

children blew kisses

into the air, christening echoes.

I woke up,

sudden to my existence,

how it fit too tight,

and cried through the back of my skull.

It was a beginning.