It stirs and gives a mighty yawn
and opens one reptilian eye
then slithers out to face the dawn
awakened by a battle cry.
'Tis War that rears it's ugly head,
it's feasting ground the battle field;
painting foreign soils red
as talons crush what will not yield.
For no one ever wins but War,
the blood soaked ground its one conquest.
Then, when our souls can bear no more,
it crawls back to its hole to rest.
How many more must die in kind?
How many mothers eyes must weep
before we have presence of mind
to kill this monster while it sleeps?
© J. Lorian Young