Twisted
A lone raven crows as sad as the death bell tolls.
The windchimes ring as a cruel mockingbird sings.
"Glory, glory!" the men of war cry,
And the lowly widows sit and sigh.
Some think they will die,
Just wondering if their spouses would come back alive.
As the newborns come into this world,
Their lost fathers are treated with scorn,
Who just want to come back home,
Where they would find their love and hope.
Laughing along with their small child,
They seem to have gone just absolutely wild.
Killing those who opposed them,
As they thought they were still in the war,
Wearing their uniforms that have long-since been shaded.
Shaving their long and sad faces,
Looking at the men who were now gray and jaded.
Watching the scenes being replayed in their head,
Watching what became of the wounded and dead.
Living their lives within their final breaths,
Right up until their deaths.
Lying down in the ground with falling flakes of white,
His loved ones knowing he'd finally lost his fight.