slaughter
a poem
The fire weeds whistle
as the fox gloves wither
and the blonde haired boys
bash among gleeful howls
at the destruction they hail
It's nothing but fantasy ideals
as their praised efforts begin to prevail
Towering over muddied terrain
coated in white fecal rain
The boys through gritted teeth
slash brutishly with harbored anger beneath
flinging mud from mass grave trenches
bullet confetti cuts through maple green defenses
and they dance among the coated black nasty
of mutilated joys screams turned raspy
Permanently forgotten
bone crushed beneath the worn boot heel of bastard impressionists
burying the anguished cries for justice
men salute in expressionless malice
amongst drunken celebration with raised chalice
and the boys bring their clubs down upon the dead corpses
the splinter and crunch as dead eyes rage
They think this is when they come of age
and their fathers will praise their harrowing excellence
encouraging their learned acts of erotic violence.
And this is what we were raised for
to always slaughter in their war.