War Mongers

It leaves a bitter taste,

that once succoring

kiss and play


two weeping willows.

Love isn’t impervious

to the arrows of time;

incendiary archers let fly.

Either these

will burn down our palace,

or ignite

our passions anew.


with a taste for bloodlust.


bred for battle.

Let it ensue

if it must,

the torrid melee.

Bodies twisted together.

Bodies rent asunder.

We fought through

scores of the Infidels

just to get this far.


bring it on, fuckers.


HG – 2019


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