Commas Count
War mars the face of man.
Though this be known to all men
we realists connive.
Thrice-prancing priests in March
have made red their faces,
have conspired anew to despoil
summer's increase,
overmuch not caring
for those about to dye
crimson Plutonic plains,
to expire in the dark.
War, Mars, the face of Man?
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
