On War…

 Anguish and tears

And bloody smears

The town of red 

Less living, more dead. 

Bullets of mercy 

Bayonets of kindness

Cleansing the ‘impure’

With death’s own caress. 

Tiny limbs and wrinkled heads 

Lie together on their eternal beds. 

Eyes open, yet don’t see 

The brutal culling 

Of you and me. 

Limp and lifeless, 

Our fingers barely touch 

To inhale life’s breath 

An effort of too much. 

A shower of blasts 

Of noise and light 

To prove one’s strength 

And toast to might. 

Young blood ebbs 

As the old and powerful thrive 

Glory be guaranteed 

Whether dead or alive. 

To the victor, the spoils

The power and the bones 

The conqueror repents not 

And so the conquered must atone. 

For though red is the colour of blood 

Some reds are closer to the hue of mud.  

These latter shades to be annihilated soon

For scarlet must win over mere maroon.