I find it quite peculiar
how a quarrel makes men savage

like a full moon makes them wolves.

The heat drained from my body
when the love drained from my soul.
My ears stopped hearing the skeletons
crunch like sticks of peppermint.
I wish the grass were green again,
and the flowers smelled of life.
Now the people writhe in pits of dirt
and worship War himself.
Gunfire echoes these praises,
and burning limbs light up the sky.
I did not know death’s fragrance
nor the sweet taste of decay
until ashes baptized me
into the race of the living.
I am holding onto memories
-or maybe they’re just dreams-
of a time when war was not a game
and morality made men think.
Maybe the world will heal one day,
or perhaps this is the end,
but either way it’s just the same,
humankind revealed itself to me,
and I wish that I was dead.

A full moon makes men wolves
like a quarrel makes men savage,
and I find it quite peculiar.