Order



If you try to scratch the meaninglessness

Off of a dreary day,

Your fingers will end up carrying the disdain

 Of the rawness at heart.

It is the peaceful harmony

Of the rotting, festering order;

The wet soil will carry the bodies  

Still so raw and alive,

As nations cease to breathe

Clinging to ideals, to honorable lives

Turning into a soulless body of mass

With nobody daring to claim another heart…

You will hear the bombs, shots, cries, elegies,

Shouting for you

As you keep silent 

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