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The Story of War and Her Muse

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It’s so easy to get lost in what most of us call life
In reality we see pain predicate itself at the tip of a knife
We have been hurt, but we always seek optimism yielding truth
We cast our prayers after the gunfight; move like a cat on a hot tin roof
Why is it we find pleasure in so many others pains?
We look for a lift in life, we substantially believe in gains
To the victor goes the spoils, to the loser goes the shame
To the rest of us goes the stone caster, speaking up to blame
I wish for freedom, to rid myself of a troubled captive mind
To look back in hindsight, to realize everything I did was fine
I don’t expect to come out of life unscathed, nor do I expect to die worry free
I want to come out in the best of light, brilliant—for the whole world to see
I have never seen so much distress and chaos in a world once fine-tuned to be free
My forefathers would most likely cry out saying we fancy the repertoire of history
But I cannot be sure that I myself do not agree
That in a land so fertile God is always meant to be
That may be true if we sew and reap the same
But for now I will believe that war is just a game
A game played like chess, fancied for the wit of its pieces mover
A sad game, a stoic game sometimes where beggars request the chooser
We may never understand our passion behind the violence
An ebb tide flow of revenge, leading to a moment of silence
Beneath the bloodbath, we remember all of those who did lose
Beneath the footprints of time, we forgot the story of war and her muse



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