DISCLAIMER: This poem was originally posted on Odyssey.

Fires smear throughout the land,

As the blood-painted riverbank would,

With the arming of a paintbrush

And the reloading of acrylic bullets of many colors,

Make the painter brush his final texturing upon this multi-layered world.

Ash-grey of what used to be their buildings would be the serfs’ concern

And the corpse-brown and the pale-green of decay

Are the only kings fit to reign over a land

Tapestried with the dead bodies of worshippers and infidels.

Flowers would only fester when the battle is over.

Whimpering for protection from the infidels, the serfs pray to their gods.

They would unfurl their flags for their freedoms

And prosperity would become the beating of their drums

And the hands that reach for help would only reach for their blades.

They own their loyalty, but not pride or sovereignty.

Roots would be refreshed with the blood of worshippers of all sides.

Escape I implore!

And hang this meaningless project

(Upon the wall that is),

For war can only be painted with a grisly image

And not explained by abstract words or ideas.

Beyond any grasp, you will never be destroyed.

Death would be the only thing to worry about instead of its messengers.

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