14/04/2017 #1William VanDorin
A small predictive poetic saga... Part twoReply
( War )
The anvil rings a metal tone, the swords for war are forged.
Evil seized the soul of man, upon the hatred gorged.
The clash of steel and smell of blood addicted those who fought.
The land lay barren, scorched and bare, on battle fields bodies rot.
The sun sets cold, the bells toll long and the wind moans and sighs.
In the gloaming nothing stirs and lightning rips the sky.
In the end the deeds are done, the lesson goes unlearned.
Still the people follow blindly, stand in line to die in turn.
Drums beat for the fallen, vengeance whispers in your ear.
For generations hate consumes us, though the reason is unclear.
Divisions made and lines were drawn, then the lies began.
Knowing this we stood and fought when we should have ran.
In so doing we followed monsters in much of madness, more of sin.
We proclaim it was not me, but they are us and we are them.
So invested in our hatred we built the tools of genocide.
Warfare lives within our hearts, with no where left to hide.