Saturday, November 26, 2011


by: R.A. Slater

The Vulcan raised his eyebrow
To hear his captain's comment
About the good old days
When firing phasers at Klingons
Was the order of the day
No one questioned his decision
Or thought asking questions first
Would have been wiser
Let the fists fly
And let the blood flow
The price of peace in the good old days
Is not diplomacy better?
Asked the logical first officer
Peace without war, without blood?
They may be different from us
That does not make them the enemy
The tired old captain sighed
And said 'I suppose'
The Vulcan then realized
His friend was just tired
Of not being able to tell at a glance
Who the enemy really was
How could one be sure
When friends became foes
When the enemy wore the familiar uniform
Quietly the Vulcan put forth his argument
That it was not people that were the enemy
But hatred, fear, and insecurities
Instead of seeing Infinite Diversity
In Infinite Combinations
These insecure people saw only differences
And not the similarities
The common bond that knit all of life together
But the tired old captain could only agree
To hold his fire through the truce
Embrace them he could not
The Vulcan let it go
Seeing the beginning of the end
A small victory to be sure
But an avalanche could tip
At a snowflakes landing

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