POEM: Victor

The ceased
And deceased
Telling their tales
Red the same
With blood mingling
As parents and
At won's
The fodder of another
Bequeathing its prize
And ultimate price
as Victor
With monstrous mettle
So easily mistaken for living
As dead
And littering
Sow trying
A pieced together
Only Abel too
Udder incomprehensibly
As accompany buy
That haunting refrain
to the victor
That vanquishing breed
And human raze
Anew create or

Truth is the First Casualty of War - Most of the Rest Are Civilians -- ANTI-WAR BUTTONNo More Win War Than Win Earthquake -- ANTI-WAR QUOTE BUTTONWinning at any cost is the expedient of . That cost is our . As I AM known to say, “ is the first casualty of ; most of the rest are civilians.” The monstrous that is war cannot be won any more than an earthquake can be won. Disaster can profit from warmongering, but such a victory can only be earned with a shit lode of lowest common denominations.

This poem uses the classic and story of , a tale of confusion over what is and what is , an iconic creature that traffics in grunts, a monstrous alien-nation whose solace is murderous wrapped up in the of innocents. The will to create is corrupted by the ambition to , ultimately killing what it seeks to master. Never the less, in the dance of and , giving life is the expansive more sow than taking life. When we give, it is ours to give; when we take it is an other's.

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