Trumpets of War

I cannot hear myself beneath the trumpets of war.
Mortally wounded love cannot be stirred so soon - can it?
My tears, yet to dry and my burns are still to heal.
Even then daylight will remain the enemy.
A fools thought for only a fool would remain so close to his misery and
bath so glouriously in his own defeat.
Before was love so pure and unblemished.
No is love so scarred and disfigured.
I am just sorry you must see it so.
You are deserving of more.