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Defeat


The war is done

And we have lost

In our final run

We didn’t have what it cost

Our hope is gone

As is our life

The coming dawn

Leaves only strife

We had our chance

But it’s gone now

We no longer prance

Now we bow

It is the end

Of all we know

They will bend

Our joy into woe

The weight is tied

Around our throats

And we are the side

To be dumped in the moats

Our peace was melted

Then reshaped in fear

And then we were pelted

With things even more drear

We were torn down

And thrown in the flame

Smile turned to frown

Nothing left to our name

Nothing to look forward to

Nothing to enjoy

We are all left blue

Good things now annoy

Life is death and worse

Death would be blissful sleep

Who gave us this curse

That makes us all weep

Where is the light

To come set us free

To end the long fight

For you them and me

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schnoseb

Benjamin P.S. is a being of immense integrity, habitually semi-boisterous, sans ostentatiousness, and sibling to seven. He is skilled in the art of art, melodic and harmonious in music. Seldom garrulous; it is somewhat a rarity for this bizarre being to be heard uttering anything auxiliary a grunt. This individual has a great extent of outlandish schemes being administrated in his psyche; but you only see the translucent structure, you encompass a diminutive amount of his true form- only some is illuminated within your perception.

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