RedPaperFox

War is not natural, Or is it? For eons of time, And years before that, Humanity was throat to throat And hands to stick Threatening life, Promising death, Over pastures of green And sources of water For a place to live, And make better fodder Of the lives that were worn down to dust. War is not natural, Or is it? Are not the weapons that give death, Made from life? For the chemicals and matter, That make them so, Are they not all, From the earth, the air, the sky? Even the earth on which we stand And fight our own, Fights back. The plates that shift And breach each-other, Are they not fighting? Are not the waves of

Never has a feeling, Made me clench my fists as much, As Frustration. Clawing and wheedling, Gnawing and slithering, Through my tired mind, As Time gathers its pace, So does Frustration leap to agonise my thoughts. Scream-igniting, Growl inducing, Madness. That drives even the most tranquil of souls To wrothed actions and howled words.

The more you watch, Glance, gaze, gape at, The slower it will go. Regimented numerals on a face, Those hands will not turn any faster, For love of god or country. Never is it rushed or hurried, Never is it wrong, only human fault Is to blame for a mistake in its journey Forever and ever it will turn, Night and day, dusk and dawn, Moonlight and sunlight all fill the hours of the day, The minutes of love, The seconds of death, Until this world ends and after, Time. Will go on.

Life is too short, For lost loves, And loves lost, Too move on you must Move backwards in the realms of your mind, And clear the debris that chokes freedom there.

She flies alone on winter’s breath, Claws clutched around her silken net. A foul creation of wicked thoughts, Woe betide you, if you are caught. With eyes as black as darkest sin, She’ll hunt you out, she’ll drag you in. For what she wants, what she needs, Is the spring of youth she craves to breathe. A sword; light slices, darkness whirls She plummets to the mortal world. Tangled, twisted, slashed and burned, Fighting still, fate cruelly turned. Still she lurks in fog, in gloom, Gorging on hate and mortal doom. Carrying the warmth of a hundred souls, The weight is too heavy, and she far too old. So if you look, and s