the mortal condition


Where there is life there may be war,
the ugly, rough and reddish thing
that seems to pause its ruthless rage
just long enough to scrape away
the souls that clot its muddy treads,
so slick, so sick, so raw, so red;
then suddenly it’s time again
to burn the ones who mourn the dead,
who’ve found their peace, or so it’s said.


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Filed under Conflict, Life, Words


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