War of the Burning Sky

Shey's Diary, Page Eleven

A poem

Blood begets blood,
Waiting for the thaw,
The ice holds back a crimson flood,
They gnash their teeth and start to claw,
Drowns worker’s fields to viscous mud,
Whips clasped in pretty hands bourgeois,
And hammers down a coffin’s stud,
That strike like strings that archers draw,
I feel them now circle above,
War is taught, and love forgotten,
The battlefield their only love,
But still we march and oh so often,
They wait and watch the warlord’s dove,
And warlike words so cheaply boughten,
Then round the corpses push and shove,
How quickly childish hearts turn rotten,
And with an end of dying words,
The author’s mind is become birds

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