Battled Wisdom

Fields, grizzled with the blood
of lost lives,
littered with the youth, the aged,
husbands and wives,
weapons stand at attention,
untended by man
standing as markers,
laying claim to this land.

One lone man purveys
the dismally laid trench,
the unmistakable thirst that
slaughter could not quench
and cleans his sword,
his one ruling law
which he holds, above all,
as his eternal flaw.

The gore, the bile and gloom
he cares for not,
regardless, this massacre
he had faithfully fought.
Fierce passion,
unflinching dedication
had he offered
to this conflagration.

He rests his head against the steel,
his murderous cohort,
recalling the sorrowful cries
through which he must sort.
"Why can not peace reign,
it is painstakingly sought.
Why bother with pleasantries
when war proves it for naught."

Unbidden, the sword
loyally replies,
and the hardened soldier
lets escape a sigh.
"The death I cause
is inevitable,
although the action
remains regrettable.

As long as there are those
who would seek power,
War will be like
the fortified tower,
its height foretelling
the impending doom,
the lackey lords,
the strength they insist to assume.

All will exist,
as is the nature of your being,
regardless towards what peace
you are fleeing.
For it only takes one of many
to disagree
to the common desire
of harmony."