War

Born infant
Her growth stunted
No other than herself
Wayward and self aggrandize

Her pregnant children
Never delivers,
Those who make it to birth,
Dies before christening
Perhaps her doctors are docile
Her midwives disillusioned
Six years to her christening
Her sons waged war
No external aggressors
Just her, herself and her sons

Plagued by greed,
They exhibits strands of intolerance
Clobbering their swords against the,
moonless sky.
The aroma of gunpowder fills the air
Men squealing and snarling as the,
ground became greasy with gore
Still they wrestle, on their mother' breasts
Same breasts they sulked milk from

Unperturbed the children plays
Albeit with sunken eyes and swollen belly
they kick their woollen ball,
War songs are now lullabies,
the kids recites to bed.
In clusters the elders gather,
Too old to fight
Frail and weary,
They wonder about their wounds

Indeed sleep as been betrayed,
Perhaps so, other than those at war
To what end is this,
To what victory is greater than life?
Victory now is pyrrhic,
For broken bones and limbs litters.
Her soldiers at battle ground quell,
But quiting is not thinkable
At Nights they drank drin gin,
Humor is still kept relevant,
For only through that is insanity,
Preserved.