Trouble leaks out of its package,
stillborn but radiating warmth,
with its toxicity seeping through paper.
The world continues to spin, helplessly
watching as its energy and efforts
rot and turn too often to tragedy.
No soul is ever left without
suffering the malaise of
some kind of heartwrenching loss.
The peace on Earth written about
with ancient, monk inkwells
is silent and transient.
Despite its perfect calligraphy,
this sought after gift of calmness
remains unwrapped, under a stale tree.
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