Of Means and Ends

A casual stroll,
An occasional fall.
An eventful winter,
An eventuality for all.
Accompanied by flakes of snow,
Carried by winds and ash.
Conducted by a broken baton,
In humanity's broken hand.
The sounds are low and rumbling,
Like rolling thunder on the plains,
They muffle the sound of feet hustling.
Marooned snow showing the way.
A peace broken by a sudden flash,
Striking down in terrible ways,
Count the distance to the storm,
and hope it stays away.
But the stroll is growing harder,
And some begin to rest,
Marking the trail selflessly,
For those who will come next.
The snow is falling harder now,
Coming to rest upon their beds.
Trembling words fill the frigid air,
They speak of means and ends.
But the silence lasts a moment.
And not a moment more.
The conductor starts the stroll again,
Focusing his eyes upon the score.
The crowd sits in stunned silence,
While giddy feet tap upon the floor.
None join in the accompaniment,
So begins the sound of war.