Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
The Winds of Wars The winds of wars have shorn the shores where children once had played, revealing bones of dead unknowns for whom the faithful’d prayed, to no avail beneath the veil of death where rockets strayed, for tit-for-tat is where it's at when war hawks’ eggs are laid. The winds of wars destroy the moors, strew corpses’ burnt debris which stains the staves that mark the graves (blest signs of victory) where somber moms are sighing psalms while staring wistfully upon the past before the blast that doomed their destiny. The winds of wars clog corridors with folks in search of peace because, outside, the genocide is giving no surcease; ‘But what the heck, it pays the check’, so say the world Police – beneath the sky, they slice the pie, each hacking off a piece. The winds of wars have wiped the floors with foes who won’t obey (the bombs that fall are meant for all, the bodies ricochet) – ‘The carcass count may sadly mount’ the vanquishers will say, while hiding facts of heinous acts neath verbal lingerie. The winds of wars (soon metaphors for hellish deeds, though deeper) have flattened schools (allowed by rules as written by the Reaper), and brought despair beamed through the air (beware the ***** beeper) and, when they slay so faraway, make human life the cheaper. The winds of wars have spread the spores that taint and mangle minds with doublespeak and hide-and-seek that closes eyes and grinds the passive pawns (once mowed like lawns) with servitude that binds, and while the blight is holding tight, the wider world unwinds. Postscript The Wins of Wars The wins of wars fill warlords’ drawers (some call it charity) with yellow gold for weapons sold to **** the enemy and purloined oil from conquered soil and tankers seized at sea – the poor are billed to fund and build the wartime industry. The wins of wars are won by ****** who sell their souls with glee and run amok to spend a buck (for killing’s never free) and more and more they’ll arm for war (a spiraled spending spree) until at last the warrior caste’s deposed and forced to flee.
0
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 8:36 AM UTC
The Winds of Wars
The Winds of Wars The winds of wars have shorn the shores where children once had played, revealing bones of dead unknowns for whom the faithful’d prayed, to no avail beneath the veil of death where rockets strayed, for tit-for-tat is where it's at when war hawks’ eggs are laid. The winds of wars destroy the moors, strew corpses’ burnt debris which stains the staves that mark the graves (blest signs of victory) where somber moms are sighing psalms while staring wistfully upon the past before the blast that doomed their destiny. The winds of wars clog corridors with folks in search of peace because, outside, the genocide is giving no surcease; ‘But what the heck, it pays the check’, so say the world Police – beneath the sky, they slice the pie, each hacking off a piece. The winds of wars have wiped the floors with foes who won’t obey (the bombs that fall are meant for all, the bodies ricochet) – ‘The carcass count may sadly mount’ the vanquishers will say, while hiding facts of heinous acts neath verbal lingerie. The winds of wars (soon metaphors for hellish deeds, though deeper) have flattened schools (allowed by rules as written by the Reaper), and brought despair beamed through the air (beware the ***** beeper) and, when they slay so faraway, make human life the cheaper. The winds of wars have spread the spores that taint and mangle minds with doublespeak and hide-and-seek that closes eyes and grinds the passive pawns (once mowed like lawns) with servitude that binds, and while the blight is holding tight, the wider world unwinds. Postscript The Wins of Wars The wins of wars fill warlords’ drawers (some call it charity) with yellow gold for weapons sold to **** the enemy and purloined oil from conquered soil and tankers seized at sea – the poor are billed to fund and build the wartime industry. The wins of wars are won by ****** who sell their souls with glee and run amok to spend a buck (for killing’s never free) and more and more they’ll arm for war (a spiraled spending spree) until at last the warrior caste’s deposed and forced to flee.
Written by
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 8:36 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem