THE FUTILITY OF WAR

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.

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