War Mongers
the ravishing revolution,
a wanton waltz of war,
where proud generals prance,
with bloody,
bruised hearts' saw,
their noble steeds,
a phalanx of fantasy,
trample the trembling,
tender/timid/bereft/faint,
the mere infinite.
in this bloody ballroom,
where death's dark majesty reigns,
the lubricious language love/lust,
of liberty's sweet pains,
is reduced to snarling insolence,
a dry, dusty joke,
as kings and queens of chaos,
trade in promiscuous fortune,
and bottomless debt,
and ravaged/rotten hope.
Copyright © Beatrix Macabre | Year Posted 2024
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