i want to dye
my hair and tattoo my skin
so that the changes
you’ve been noticing in me
look like they’re
on purpose.

I write about abandoned homes,
and forgotten souls, and memories
that creep in the darkest corners of my mind;

I write about loneliness,
and broken promises,
and words carved on my skin,

I write about the bloodstains on the snow,
and the remains of a car crash,
and how the wind hums a sad song

I write about the wolf
who cries at night,
howling for the moon’s response,

I write about shattered windows,
about empty halls,
and places with the stench of alcohol and regret

I write about cracks on the walls
and shadows that scare
the hell out of people,

I write about how that boy’s father died,
how his mother left,
and how that girl took her own life.

You see, I only write about tragedies;

don’t make me write about you.

There will come a time when the night air
won’t send chills down my spine
for it will no longer whisper your name.

I will stop telling stories about you,
for the moon has grew tired of hearing them
and weariness is an awful thing to feel.

The stars would appear
brighter than your eyes,
and I would hear lullabies again.

The winds would be warm,
the seas won’t crash waves,
and I will no longer drown.

Soldiers sown in the field
And bodies usually are the yield
Bodies of strangers , friends and
colleagues
Leaving survivors with long lonely
monologues
Rendering life without taste or feel.

In this clash of elephants
The casualties include animals ,
civilians , even infants.
That is to say but the least .
Vultures gather in circles to feast
On the remains of once beautiful
living beings .

Where then is the profit of war ?
When rebuilding cost so much
more
Both humanly and materially .