War

ashes drifting from the
blade that makes skin
crawl with fear as the
dread fills you
eternally, a sense of
forbidding is undeniably
ghosting through us.
haunting the battlefields, we are
incontempt with the way the people who triumph
juggle the crown, which is broken,
kaput, and how the ones who lost still
linger on the grass,
mourning as the day grows into 
night.
onward, the losers march,
pulling themselves of the grass, listening as the commen
quail sings a
righteous, beutiful, but undifiebly
sad song
torn hopes and
uplifting thoughts are scattered, the sun
venting on the
wet, dewy grass
X-rays were not need to see the 
yearning for blood that came from the winners, which were
zealous for more victory.