The screaming of men as they tear at one another.
In the cold and pristine land.
Where the vast snow and clean crisp air hold dominance over all.
The land where men collide and let their blood spill from their flesh and bones.
The land where men choose to wage war.
The land where men choose to let loose their hate.
The land where men and men themselves choose to spill blood.
The land stained with their choices, the land their vast canvas.
The snow stained with their blood and riddled with the corpses of fallen soldiers.
The snow they turn muddy with their constant marching and never ending battles.
The air they taint with their screams of rage and agony.
Where battle crys rise and fall like the roars of lions.
Where the sounds of swords clashing and clanging constantly like a broken bone chilling song.
What a horrible sight to see!
The land their canvas warped into such horror!
But in the end who can feel sorry for man?
For someone given the gift of a blank canvas to do with their own bidding.
What sympathy can be given when one chooses to paint their canvas red with their own blood?
The answer is that there is none
For it is man and man's fault alone to choose the path he has chosen, to be the creature he has become.
YOU ARE READING
The Canvas
PoetryThis is just a little poem I made! I hope you all enjoy it, please comment! :)
