3 votes

Attrition!

If one were so inclined,
to pile upwards every carcass of War,
it would not quite at It's toenail peak.

It places a sorrowing, foreign levy upon It's dead,
having accepted It's tax of death while living,
in service to an assembler of a bone-stool,
for which It weighs upon in vainglorious reach
the underside of every ethereal floor;
of every Heaven It has sentenced It's underlings to,
to which itself is denied.

It carries and old name,
one that convinces men of righteous murder,
and It will suppress this damning title for It's own
and grow to monster over It's persuaded plunders.

Peace and Love first.




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