The Song of War

Light was frozen,

Dead.

The sun had forgotten how to smile.

Sunlight was no longer warm.

It was frozen.

It was dead.

So were the eyes of those who starred upon

The earth covered with an elaborate carpet of

Bleeding corpses,

Rotting as time skipped over them.

Rivers bleed crimson,

Tears turn red,

As winds unknown to the human eye,

Chant the ruins of human song.

This is a time of terror,

This is a time,

When chaos turned black.

Hand in hand,

Gun with gun,

Shoot down the enemy,

Conquer for your country,

They bribed us with the concept of elusive bravery.

“all’s fair in love and war,” whispered the wailing faces.

Light was frozen,

Dead.

The sun forgot how to shine,

The clouds forgot how to cry.

“this is peace,” declared the priests of terror.

Soldiers fall like flowers,

Dirtied and bloodied-

Pink and red.

Their faces all the same,

Their eyes frozen,

Pleading for an escape.

The same haunting smile,

Their skin, pale and white-

Snow-like.

“this is life,” declared the priests of terror.

Films of daylight and midnight,

Sail across the oceans of time,

As the bells of the past summers,

Echo in worn whispers.

Light was frozen,

Dead.

A ghost

Surrendering its pride to its dark victor,

As the soul deserts the body,

Torn to shreds,

Shattered like the glass pieces

Scattered across the floor.

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THE DEATH OF GOD

God is dead.

Good is dead.

Did it even exist in the first place?

All that existed was the human mind.

What did not kill it was good and what did was bad.

God is Bad.

God is Dead.

God killed the human mind when he created Humanity.

He made his children bleed.

He made them argue with fists, blades and bullets.

He created the art of war.

He created war to be kind.

Humans were born to be torn apart,

To be bled as pigs and treated as dogs.

God killed humanity when he created it.

He hated Adam.

He despised Eve.

He created the virtue of slaughter.

He created the worship of war.

He created the virtue of torture.

God is bad.

God is dead.

God is dead.

Good is dead.

Did it even exist in the first place?

All that existed was the human mind.

What did not kill it was good and what did was bad.

God is Bad.

God is Dead.

THE ANTHEM OF THE SINNERS

We’re all born sinners.

All sinners go to Hell.

So how does it matter what we do?

Take a life,

Spare one,

Create one-

It just doesn’t matter any longer.

We’re all born sinners.

All sinners go to hell.

Yes, you heard me right.

I met Satan, Lucifer too actually.

They taught me the art of warfare.

The art to kill

The precise skill to take a life and enjoy it

It really is an ordinary job.

Everyone is eligible.

That’s why they recruited for the war,

Snatching away the youth and time

From the hearts of the living

And trust me,

They have a strict no discrimination policy.

It is really not all that bad

You get to steal the lives of your enemies-

You get paid for that too.

‘It’s the best job I ever had’

And they’re not joking around.

They play with guns and dance to

The music of the shattering shells,

On a dance floor of shattered skulls and bones.

They dance with death.

And those who he rejects return,

Scarred for life,

Alive on the fringes of society like starving wolves

Always craving for another drop of human blood.

But it is alright.

We’re all born sinners.

All sinners go to Hell.

BLEED

A language is a living organism.

It sheds old words

Every hour, every day, every second, every year.

It sheds words-

Old, unwanted and irrelevant;

And it adopts and absorbs new word,

Each mouth inventing its own word,

Starting its advance from the day the infant was born.

Each word is a declaration of war-

For land, power, hunger, water-

It is a war for the world

Words created this world and they will shatter it.

A language is a living organism.

Words are its blood.

The very thing that brought it to life will cause its death.

It grows, it evolves, it dies, it fights, it struggles-

A language is a living organism.

A language is the thread of society.

Words are its threads and punctuations are its stitches.

A living organism is a language.

A language is I.

Child Soldier

War is that point of negotiations when whords are no longer enough.

Now, its all left to who holds the best.

Brick by brick falls to pieces

desperate yells silenced.

The sun glares. The rain screams

Thunder- the orchestra of the explosion of grenades,

while lightening rips across the sky, slicing the empire of the clouds, the same way

the sword slices human flesh-

like butter.

The moon is red. It bleeds, collecting and attracting blood from the sliced

decaying remains rotting on the fields where the war was silenced, the same

way a magnet attracts metal to itself.

Ceasefire cleanses the clamour of the previous night.

After all, no longer is the child soldier compelled to fight.

Years fly by, like the birds who’s wings rule the kingdom of the supposed heaven.

The sun smiles now.

The moon is gentle.

Thunder is soft.

Lightening is spectacular.

Flowers bloom on the forgotten battlefield-

red, blue and a rainbow of colored petals with a jade green grass background,

covering up the previous horrors brilliantly,

just as a bright smile does.

Yet, the child soldier,  now turned adult holds the eyes of a warrior and the grim smile

of one who’s soul was snatched away

by the Gods of this demented warfare.

Blood Moon Rising

The sun never rose that day.

It only set.

The dusk never came that day.

Only tides of blurred faces of the dead.

The shadows didn’t lurk anymore,

The wind ceased to blow,

The ice wouldn’t freeze anymore,

The rivers refused to flow.

The earth was stained red-

Stained with the blood of miscalculation and failure,

Tainted by the stink of rotting corpse

And echoing the damned footsteps of an expected hell.

Eyes didn’t flutter open,

Valentine’s day was forgotten,

Christmas became the celebration of the dead

And people starved, even past their death bed.

The air echoed the voice of the forgotten faces-

The abandoned children playing in tanks,

The aging man deafened by the demented orchestra of shells

The shrieks of women stuck in a permanent hopeless horror

and the gold-clad minister smiled as he hissed for the world to see,

“welcome to hell,”

Gifts were guns,

The infant leaves grew ruby red as yellow and orange-

The symphonies of glee,

Melted away into the river of severed heads.

The sun glared, annoyed and disgusted.

The moon screamed in haunting silence

As the last beating heart finally stopped,

Frozen at last.

The sun never rose that day,

It only set.

The dusk never came that day.

Only the severed limbs of the orphaned dead.