The sword describes an upward arc
and crimson droplets spray the field.
Eyes of the fallen lose their spark.
No mercy given, there's no yield
as swords and maces cut a swath
through the phalanges of the brave.
The God of War is on the path,
no demigod, or king, or slave
can stand against that flaming sword.
Its thirst so palpable, it hums.
Some in an instance, some lay, gored,
their heartbeat echoing the drums.
Soon groans replace the cries of war
and later still, a fertile grass.
A field of poppies marks the score,
reflecting heavenward. Like glass.
Author notes: Image from Pinterest wc 100
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