B(C)ATTLE FIELD 


Whooshing winds wave by 

 in tumultuous torrents

Singing tales of dripping blood,

 steels striking in my attentive ears

Wood cackling cries across:

the death moans of a charred forest 
I sent my nose upwards 

to sniff out the aroma of life

All I got was the putrid 

scent of war and strife

All I got was a bloody stench

All I got was a bloody field
Once green with hope 

Once lush with expectation

But now a wilderness 

rich with shrubs of hate

Standing at the rear-end of Fate

He has fed us

with the dregs of his meal

And now our battle wounds 

even the healers cannot heal
My sword has fed 

  my hands have bled

My foe is dead

The lake is red 

The taste of blood is all I know 

And their armies before me do grow 
Like cattle to slaughter,

 led,  we are

Death is near, peace is missing, 

 love is far

To find peace, die we must 

And satisfy our sword’s bloodlust
Bravery is war, 

  and peace is weakness 

Peace we long for 

 but we butcher meekness

 

With an outward thrust 

 our horns, our swords are sent 

Blood spilt at all cost 

 our home’s peace cloak is rent 

Apparel of rage we now wear

We will,  now and always  

 graze on their fear 

©2017 2edged pen

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