28 July 2012
Marching in, swords held high.
Erupting sky, the moon tears through the clouds.
Glistening off the chrome.
The gray clouds cover, a perfect storm.
War marches in upon a red horse.
The battle grounds stained in blood.
Marking the war paint over their faces.
Smearing the mud.
Letting out their battle calls, they go to war.
Sparks from the striking metal.
Bloody, mutilated and this still isn't settled.
There is no time for speaking in riddles.
Death above in the clouds playing his fiddle.
We're at war.
And we don't even know what for.
War • Opuss № I