War – Poetry

War

By J. A. Weymouth

 

Weighed down by glass columns,

Their repetitious hand gestures,

And made up backstabbing

All were for trouble and war.

 

Simple changes from thought of mountains,

Awful skyless horizons – hindered.

The metal ark reaches and dips itself

Into horrid carcasses.

 

Made by a scattering, a calamity

Amongst solemn promise-breakers

They join – hands together,

To the ready. And fire off into an unknown

December.

 

Dirt and blood will be described in poems.

 

Members.  They shake.  Healthy and wicked.

A fountain of blood is too obvious.

So, the path will devour – watchless and

strangeless/skyless.

 

A titter of a wave in their millions

drowning the folks with a tremor.

Ribbon red over white faces – no vermillion.

John would kill his brother.

 

Something alone to be gone,

A shiver in the cave – a whimper.

Why should we shape a man to none?

Figuring with numbers and with no breather?

No scars.  No humiliation.

 

Repeat.

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