The Museum of Peace

It got its name because no one visits.

Vines have cracked and hidden the marble
walls of every gallery. A tree’s roots overrun
a path where a hall might have been,

and the sculpture of some mother
has been worn to a knob by the wind.

The fallen roof is home to small animals
who step with innocent indifference
on pottery and shriveled canvases.

One man found the ruins and brushed
moss from a bronze shield. Images

of war etched underneath seemed
to come alive: soldiers on horseback
spilling blood in the courtyard, stone

stairs holding the weight of a corpse
with open eyes knowing we must leave,

a commander yelling he can achieve peace.