Lying in the blood-stained rubble

we stare into the sky, the lord of flies swarming overhead

Drawn to corpses as the world utters chortled screams

it waits for death patiently

no remorse, only a calm acceptance

We can see the end, beckoning and calling

as entrails bind us to mortar, serving as

our own crown of thorns

Fingers clench the trigger in a deathgrip;

the world chortles even louder in its disillusionment.


Author’s Words for Thought

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.” -Plato