We live in a real world outside our poetry,
And that is not so peaceful as this world,
Each moment passes by the clock silently,
But violence and differences threaten freely,
The same way as first time this world appeared.
A worldwar or a wordwar are pretty much the same,
Often the world is ripped apart by the explosions in wars,
A soul is more often than not torn apart from the body,
By the sharpest words often hurled at "family,"
Though later repented about uttering them,
Deeper than any shrapnel ever could.
My HP Poem #442
— The End —