This is War

War isn’t glory.
War isn’t what the bards sing of,
War isn’t a God –

War is blood.
And rust and shards of gold in place of gilded cities

War is a distant breeze;
a promise of Utopia,
whispered at the twelfth hour
amidst the chaos
in the dreams of restless youth

War is what turns
legions upon legions of masses
into gore and dust and fables

War is Ares,
wearing the skins of the men
He has slain,
with the barest hint of triumph
on His lips just before
the battle trumpets are blown

War is blood we turn into poetry.

Back to You

How terrible it is,
to love something Death can touch.

Isn’t that always the way somehow?
Those meant for eternity are
the ones marked by the fires of Fate,
tested and torn apart.

Which is harder?
To be the one who left,
or to be the one who survived?

To be the one who will sit at the edge of the Underworld,
stolid eyes set on the horizon,
waiting and hoping and waiting?

Or to be the one who will visit the graveyard for all the years to come
and water the shriveled, wilted flowers with tears?

Maybe this is why they say there’s life after death,
because in my end is my beginning –

For those who are meant to be
will find their way back to each other,
in this life and the next.
And every life after that.

Those fated to be star-crossed
will dance together under the stars again;
in the next world,
if not this one.