What are centuries to men of
War? The colour of sword play
Flashing in the wane moonlight,
The fight is strong and it has been

A long time since any semblance of
Normalcy, breakfast, lunch and dinner,
Bleeds from letters, children calling their
Soldiers home. All they get are ashen bones

Scrounged by scavengers off the dusty plains,
Assigning blame is what fuels the flame, toddlers
Shoes turn into military boots and the cycle
Continues, never-ending. Time is bending and

Changing but fundamentally this is the same,
Flash bangs and grenades, loose bullets and
Broken names. Sanity and words of brave
People surrendering their very existence,

The mixed up drive of humanity, where
Hope and love get left behind and horrors
Replace the good in life.


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