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Wartimes are spent

hollow and alone,

carving arrows from

stick and stone,

swords of steel,

spears of bone,

blood is bled,

blood is red,

blood is read . . .

enough is said.



Wartime is spent

on an empty throne,

guards have ran

gone back home,

this is the truth

that we have sewn,

and with his

spear of bone,

the last man standing

takes your throne . . .

your home,

your throne . . .

his throne.



Wars are bought

with soldiers' blood,

spilt needlessly in

pools of mud,

fields of oil

and hills of sand,

those whom hide

will fill this land,

if you can,

lend a hand,

a helping hand.

COMMENTS

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QueenZombie
23:57 Apr 06 2012

Amazing

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In Hell We Trust,

to what end?

The whore has no lust,

just a means to an end.

Do what you must,

you your family defend,

and to your life

an end I shall give.

Is this what is

to become of us if

In Hell We Trust?

COMMENTS

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GodOfChaos
23:16 Aug 25 2010

this is really interesting...

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