Victory is a handed down waste land.

The hands of a bloody father grasp gently as it crumbles

All while handing the world to his daughter. 

Like desperate animals men claw at each other to stake their claim,

Only for the land to be left desolate and desperate.

Their chests rise and fall and their feet move in tandem

To the beat like the deep roar of a war drum.

She grasps her fathers hand caked with death

And her skirts sigh with each step.

Victory was born a silent dance,

And even those who win will feel the unspoken.

For grief is thick like black smoke,

And it chokes even the innocent.

Tears water the earth and her soft hands plants the seeds

In hopes of new life to sprout from the blood soaked soil.

Her legs sweep over dead bodies like fallen logs

And her feet snag on stiffened fingers in a tangle of vines.

Victory dreamed of being a prize,

But there it sits upon a shelf 

Like a vacant trophy, dusty and dull.

And the stench of death fills the void.