Tom Mcmurray Poet Quatrain

The Child Soldiers

The scars of war are worn with scorn
By those who propagate the pain
And leave the flesh all flayed and torn
As blood is washed away with rain.

No way to count the thousands dead,
All victims of gross vanity.
They fell to monsters born and bred
Who thrive in their perversity.

They slaughter sons and daughters all
And find great pleasure in the kill
As populations quickly fall;
Their lust for blood is never still.

To force a child to kill his own
Is part of their horrific game;
These children lost and so alone
Until they lose all sense of shame.

And is the world still unaware
Of this insane reality?
Or has it lost its soul somewhere
That's blind to such brutality?

It seems the world will be at war
Until that final burst of light
When God adds up the final score
Of every soul lost to the night.

And somewhere in the Universe
Another world will then begin.
Will life again become perverse
And drown the children in its sin?

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