thematic variations on the old cliche: love, not war

And war shall have no shelter in
the mirrored hallways of the sublime spirit,
nor shall war's dragon enter our palace
doors, for the sun extinguishes wickedness
like a sword of rays, and war shall
be no more.

Love shall have dominion over our pale house
like tender truth drinks in the songs
of solemn spurned loners and blossoms
the feathers of lips into brilliant flight,
aerobatics of sweetness in a
light burnt sky between our ghost shapes
and sweeping Immelmans with the
rose blown wind that dances upon us
like gentle drifts of song.

Do not call war into love, my gentle
friends, for your sugar rots when you
do violence to our birdsong of emotion,
for your seed is scattered when you
throw up your hands to the death of
possibilities and the seasons in your
breast lock in endless winter
when you call down from your tower
wicked commands into the reflecting pond
where you billowed in your first kiss.