A Song of Sadness

Let me sing a song of sadness,

A song of overwhelming grief.

I cannot pour my heart out,

Cut from my chest and bled

Until it is bereft of blood.

I can only sing about

The pain in my heart,

That cannot be said,

In one word

Or two.

Let me sing a song of sadness,

About the love

I once had.

It was a beautiful love,

Untouchable by the dirt that

Rots this society

And the corruption of

The tainted hands of reality.

It blossomed,

And bloomed,

And grew without fear

Or hesitation.

There was nothing unstoppable,

Nothing unwanted,

Just pure,



Untouched love.

Let me sing a song of sadness,

That sprouted from this beautiful love.

It came with the falling rain

On a sudden late afternoon

Where there was no sound,

Other than the water,

Gushing through the downpipes,

Singing a solemn song,

Of waiting by the window,

For that painful,



That came with the darkening sky.

Let me sing a song of sadness,

Of the men and women,

Who fought in the war,

For their country,

For their nation,

To die,

A lonely death

In a field unrecogniseable

To them, except at the last moment.

Let me sing a song of sadness,

For this is their last moment,

Of the thoughts in their heads,

When they think

Of those they’d love,

And those they love

With all their hearts.

Their love soars,

In flying colours,

Over the fields,

As the rain pours on endlessly,

Drawing the poppies,

From their graves.

Let me sing this song of sadness,

And bring their stories of love

Alive, through their grief,

There was happiness.


We Will Win.


They are waiting by my side, breathing as I breathe, waiting as I am.  We wait under the shadows, knowing that we have reached the end.  We don’t care though.  Because we hear her voice ringing out over the arena, cheering us on, loud and proud.  She is our salvation.  For her, we will win.



Is the chaos and destruction,

That takes the lives of those we love,

And turns the world upside down,

Turning it into “painfulness”

The colour of blood and water.

The Game of War.

The game of war,

Is a deadly philosophy

That strategizes how

To take lives.

It is not a game,

That is played half-heartedly.

It is not a play to sit back,

And enjoy, leisurely.

Do you know the pain of war?

The suffering the comes,

After the victory has been won?

The pieces are put together,

But no in the same shape,

Or order,

It’s too hard,

To smooth the edges,

That have been too damaged,

To be,


But yet,

The pieces fit,

Like it should be,

The damage,

Disguised as something else.

They call it the new world,

The new country,

The new land.

But how can it be,

Thriving with riches,

When the land is marked by,

The ever present,

Game of war.

But there is the art of war,

That is not meant to harm,

To maim,

To kill.

It is a philosophy,

To save lives,

Wherever possible

To gain the most,

Whenever possible.

But it gets misinterpreted,

And becomes,

The game of war.

It’s a terrible game,

Meant for the better,

And sometimes ends in the better,

If only,

It wasn’t the in between moments,

That remained

Like when the girl looks back,

Thinking she heard her lover’s voice.

Or when the mother stops cutting carrots,

Because she feels a shiver down her back.

Or when the baby cries,

And the mother doesn’t know why.

This is the game of war.

This is the pain,


And unseen.

Still, they play the game of war,

Playing with human lives.

It’s just a game to them,

A game of politics,

And hidden agendas,

For profit,

Not loss.

They want to gain,

As much as possible,

When they play,

The Game of War.

Love Letter.

When the summer is hot – so much that the ends of my hair frizz up – I think of you.  Fight hard, fight brave, but don’t be stupid.  I’ll stay out of the sun and avoid tanning.  I’m waiting, spending Valentine’s alone.  But you wanted to fight.  So be safe.  Don’t die! Come back to me.

Dead man walking.


The corpses everywhere stank of day old death.  It had been a catastrophe, a mistake, a suicide mission.  But for honour, these men had given their lives, valiantly, and fought the fight to death.  In the shadow of death, a figure walks.  Limp, and dislocated, it slowly made its way west.  He was after blood.


Red River.


The horses pound away, leaving the flair of dust in the air.  There are drops of blood trailing everywhere, fallen from killer blades.  Bodies, corpses, cut and bleeding fill the barren desert landscape.  A river is the land’s saviour.  It runs around the dead bodies, washing away the death, turning red.  The souls forever immortalised.


A Battle Cry.

A battle cry,

forever echoing.

A kiss,

forever lasting.

A touch,

forever fading.

A child,

forever remembering

A past that should not be forgotten.

English: Confederate dead behind the stone wal...

English: Confederate dead behind the stone wall of Marye’s Heights, Fredericksburg, Va., killed during the Battle of Chancellorsville. Note: There were two battles at Marye’s Heights. The first was the Battle of Fredericksburg in December 1862, the second was the eastern portion of the Battle of Chancellorsville, May 1863. According to the NARA caption for photo96, this photo is from the 1863 battle. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)



Dawn (Photo credit: Daveybot)


If the sight of golden light pouring across the deserted green were not the sign that it was over, the girl would cry.  For seven days the world above had been a battleground, fighting for freedom.   Taking in the morning, the girl saw that the world was crying.  But Dawn, with its beauty said, “Survive.”

Brothers in arms.

Brothers in arms, brothers of oaths, brothers of blood, stand together arm in arm in love and hate.  They share the same fate forever searching for an escape.  Blood and gore, broken hearts and tight embraces.  They are cursed to be brothers, forever and ever until the day the die.  But is it a curse?

The Roman Army.

They marched in hordes, their paces in synchrony.  They breathe, glower, and they all look the same.  As their opponents loom before them, fear settles in.  They shrink back in fear as red and metal settle in on them, pushing, shoving, slicing their way through.  What’s left behind is forgotten, as the army marches on.


He had aged more than he had thought as he walked to the seat in front of the podium.  He looked at all the young people around him.  But he only stared at the young man now on stage.  He had received a medal.  He had one too, for valour.  But courage cannot be awarded.

Love and War.

All is not fair in love and war.

I knew that when I waited in fear for the letter to come something bad would happen.  War is a devastating period in life.  You cannot avoid the fear that comes.  It comes like a quiet whisper.  Trailing before.  The letter comes in hand says, painfully, “Sorry.”

Freedom of Speech.

The war was coming and the media consented it.  Free speech is an ideology to be read and thought about.  In this time in age, where the crowd roars in indignation, and in protest.  Where they are forced by the riot police in their heavy armour and reinforced shields, where is the free speech now?