The Winds of Wars
By loquaciousicity
- 45 reads
The Winds of Wars
The winds of wars have shorn the shores where children once had played,
revealing bones of dead unknowns for whom the faithful’d prayed,
to no avail beneath the veil of death where rockets strayed,
for tit-for-tat is where it's at when war hawks’ eggs are laid.
The winds of wars destroy the moors, strew corpses’ burnt debris
which stains the staves that mark the graves (blest signs of victory)
where somber moms are sighing psalms while staring wistfully
upon the past before the blast that doomed their destiny.
The winds of wars clog corridors with folks in search of peace
because, outside, the genocide is giving no surcease;
‘But what the heck, it pays the check’, so say the world Police –
beneath the sky, they slice the pie, each hacking off a piece.
The winds of wars have wiped the floors with foes who won’t obey
(the bombs that fall are meant for all, the bodies ricochet) –
‘The carcass count may sadly mount’ the vanquishers will say,
while hiding facts of heinous acts neath verbal lingerie.
The winds of wars (soon metaphors for hellish deeds, though deeper)
have flattened schools (allowed by rules as written by the Reaper),
and brought despair beamed through the air (beware the booby beeper)
and, when they slay so faraway, make human life the cheaper.
The winds of wars have spread the spores that taint and mangle minds
with doublespeak and hide-and-seek that closes eyes and grinds
the passive pawns (once mowed like lawns) with servitude that binds,
and while the blight is holding tight, the wider world unwinds.
Postscript
The Wins of Wars
The wins of wars fill warlords’ drawers (some call it charity)
with yellow gold for weapons sold to kill the enemy
and purloined oil from conquered soil and tankers seized at sea –
the poor are billed to fund and build the wartime industry.
The wins of wars are won by whores who sell their souls with glee
and run amok to spend a buck (for killing’s never free)
and more and more they’ll arm for war (a spiraled spending spree)
until at last the warrior caste’s deposed and forced to flee.
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Comments
Hard hitting and clever
Hard hitting and clever rhymes. When I was little it was the sound of mosquitos and worrying if would get bitten in the night - cannot imagine the constant sound of watching drones which might murder my family and destroy my home on the whim of someone hundreds of miles away
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