Lord Of War
We burn, when there is no flame,
The ashes return, whence they came,
Dust to dust, pieces for peace,
The screams echo from the mud, for the rivulets still flow.
Tiny streams, Christmas red,
Winding and moving and snaking forever,
Escape, you must,
But though you run and run, ever they flow.
The push of gas, the blast of acrid powder,
The dragon’s mouth spits fire,
But it’s flames are metal and lead and steel,
They burn not, but kill nonetheless.
Tipped bringers of finality,
Tiny, wingless angels of death,
A power no man should ever wield,
A cylinder doth carry in it’s bosom.
Unleashed they are, the dogs of war,
Your boy brigade, your children of doom,
A bullet brings the end, you say,
Whether the wielder is forty, or fourteen, perhaps.
The stucco walls have their red paint,
The mansion shines, ever bright,
Strutting, proud, powerful,
The daylight you own.
Come sunset, alas, the dogs turn on you,
You awake, carcasses piled near,
Horror clogs your nostrils, fear plugs them,
You fling yourself into the sleepless abyss.
The years gone by, wasted, squandered,
A shell remains, no more,
Gaunt, faded, broken,
The mind robbed of it’s strength.
And at last, the angel visits you,
Tiny, wingless, merciful,
Dragon’s mouth against your own,
You pray for redemption.
The final sweating moment arrives,
The trembling finger begins to squeeze,
Hear the awful sound, you murderer,
The devil below is ringing his knell.
