Smudged ink scatters the field as a collateral stain,
Whilst demons sneer at the rotten corpse of good intentions.
Battle not yet won.
Words don't rhyme,
Sentiment don't chime.
We pick and poke,
make do, get by and get through.
Worn down, torn up
Spat out.
It's life.
Re-joined, re-thought, re-fought;
and go again.
Ideas snipe to the cacophony of argumental artillery.
Metaphors and similes cower for cover.
The wise man speaks,
words build a city in dreams.
Corruption of man builds hovels for the many,
palaces for the few.
Yet when did a dream keep the rain off?
Wise men speak no more.
And they tell us lies,
those on high.
Of life and reasons why.
Us the soldiery, rabble, the cannon fodder.
We'll die for their cause:
in ignorance, ecstasy or disbelief.
This at least we know.
