The Color Of War Where tranquility used to be, there is pandemonium The freedom street is held in solitary confinement Armored cars, bombs and heavy machine guns, Running wild like an old Singer machine The collector makes a ghastly entry and no man is safe A deadly calm looms over the sphere, There is curfew on the streets, the once placid side of town Suddenly, a loud penetrating sound filled the void. The lofty magnificent edifice bowed to its captor. The walls quivered and crumbled, the streets quaked. Deafening, shattering, disturbing echoes, How many until it rests and releases the soul of man? Carnage is such, a delight to the cruel and the faint at heart The collector is not done yet, no not yet, until the sheaves Picked clean perhaps. By sunset there would be beauty For ashes, charred, dark flesh with sense searing whiff, Eyeballs bulged, and dangle from the sockets. Soused in tangy crimson shadiness, an odious blot On-the-landscape. What a Colorful annihilation. Only the fittest would survive, no Not the fittest but the lucky ones. When war strikes, There is none fitter except hope. Hope is the fittest. The collector gathers beauty for ashes and no man is safe. In war-torn nations, laved with chaos and peril, How would one survive when nefarious eddies, rustle And the earth shivers and weeps in the tides? If war cried a tear what would the color be? Scarlet tinged, dark and purple, perhaps a dash of Melancholy-pale trails, collapsing softly on the once Beautiful landscape, now a crimson-stained Blotchy, jarring reality glued to the face of peace.