What Is Peace?

What a place it is, People feel the peace, The whole body is inflamed, Keel joints are jammed, Cellophane tapes have the knots, Hard to move the pulleys with peace, Balls and sockets are displaced, The spare parts grow in the stem labs, Cushions are everywhere to pad, People are unaware of the fire, In each and every cell of their personal prison, They celebrate their acquired peace, From the hard repetitive works, Fuel with trans fat and sugar from the shelves, Gulping of pills after every meal, Let the peace of having long life be the real, Holding their chest, coughing nonstop, Sitting in the wheel chairs, immobile, Enter and exit though the insurance door, Let these peaceful people happily be adored, They are the guinea pigs to be researched.