Sword Strokes

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's about the war

Submitted: April 20, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 20, 2017



Sword strokes cut down old foes screaming silently since the throat was cut, blood runs and they can't escape the flood. The river’s stream flows and seeps into the earth, farmers of the land now drown in their place of birth. Dams made of bodies try to block the flooding fields but the waters keeps coming and the rain pours still. Hold the little child, hide underneath your mother, she's dead now protecting you ensuring that you don’t suffer. Once sword now fire fleeting foot not fast enough ‘X’ mile radius engulfed in fires love. Embrace made of hate suffocates and makes insane Whilst the sane debate for sake of face another child dies in vain

The pain.

The searing pain.

Now and forever the pain will remain, a soldier or a mental case another soul lost astray. Another with no home or job, no land to their own, a nomadic soul rejected by every throne. Another person lost to time, statistics in undocumented war crimes Only undone at time of setting sun, years and generations unknown for the gun

The loss remains, the loss remains In back of all our brains We don't know what to say, it happens and again and again. With no gain.

Only momentary monetary sedimentary amounts of cash Washed clean with the blood, buying bombs causing Ash Money come money go for the sake of human souls Another lost to the sword, of money, greed and gold.

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