War

This is a poem caled 'War'

On heathen hearts we speak the means to be,
While frivolity strikes out our dreams,

To wage more talk and fall forth,
Into staggered families we tread,
And fill cups of dread to borrow from their plate,

Tears in water say goodbye
So exhausted ripples reach shores to die
And nothing remains

Like lots of things, we used to be
We play out our way
In moulds of clay and clouds of grey