Their song
smells of steel toed boots
and tastes
of gunpowder.
I watch as
they bake the dove with rosemary and thyme,
and serve
the lamb with mint.
They laugh
and joke.
None can
hear the children scream...
With a
smile, that would make Ares proud,
they talk
of blood and death as the wine is served.
Such clean
hands have those who touch nothing...
It is a
game you see.
The pawns
move and move and move,
then die...
But the
gold pours in all red and sticky.
The wolves
gather to the feast.
Cheered by
the sheep who pay to see the spectacle.
And to the
music of bombing and the firing of guns,
dessert is
served cold...
No comments:
Post a Comment