Death; the dealer of the final deck of life. No hidden agendas, just a cold slate to wipe. With hand and sword or rock and stone, with shaft sailing deadly through grey skies, alone. The smarter the weapon, the reaper delights at a fulsome harvest of terror and cries. They split the atom and split the odds, they split the proceeds but never the cost. Thus, to tally the tariff of brave men as they fall amidst carnage and corruption, he watches as they crawl. The dealer doesn't care be they friend or foe. To fall is to die; to die cold and slow. The spear of destiny; fate beckons us all, just watch as they flock like lambs to the call. The colours fly high, just watch them dance, yet few will go home save the cruel whim of chance. Heartbroken mothers, bereft, hear them cry and beseech with empty hearts, for they can't understand why? No love can protect them, no arms keep them warm, no power over the tyrants who promise them such harm. Like the pull of the tide over seas vast and wide, there’s nowhere to run, there’s nowhere to hide. The cards are now dealt in such futile designs and only deaths dealer can decipher the signs. Written by Darren Scanlon, May 2013. Revised by Darren Scanlon, 4th July 2015. ©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.