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.
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