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Art of war
It has all become a blur, piercing skin and fur
from a musket, lead flying ahead
Natives, they incur, shooting horses spur
Many left for dead, rest not knowing what's ahead
America strives for life, sir, yet leads to massacre
Right to feel unease, natives, fought with no guarantees
To show disdain to the white man’s name,
To feel the breeze in their forefather's trees
Natives trapped in chain, if they opposed slain.
America strives for freedoms keys, yet taken as it please
Choosing to preen what was thought of as unclean
The white forsake native lore, preferring battles roar
Not yet sixteen still sent to careen
Letting blood pour, the children not knowing what's in store
America strives for happiness, it's a dream for those that fit in scene.
One hundred years later, countless cultures thrown into craters
Entire lives lost to time, the young hearing death chime.
Two hundred later, many white still think they are greater.
War is still in climb, the only difference is time.
Bullets flying through the square, entire cities in warfare.
Canvases, painted red, entire families left for dead.
Death birds in the air, picking bones bare.
In bodies shrapnel embed, many pass with words unsaid.
Died before words of flare could have care.
Gunners hearing pop, executioners hearing chop.
Priests giving prayer, medics repair.
Wishing the war a stop, yet, men with hair cropped,
Still scare, rarely will spare.
Bodies begin to drop, as others rise to the top.
Some, if lucky a shallow grave, many lost in wave.
Those atop clamored for non-stop.
Returning, named brave, yet, some knave.
Many limbs been lob, men unable to forget the pop.