A Battlefield Alive.

The warriors take their mark,
Arrows pointed high and swords drawn.
They fight for one lowly pawn,
The pawn that beats to supply us life.
Knights take flight against this subtle strife.
Horse's monotonously trot with every beat.
Strides long and free cutting through the falling sleet.
To take the battlefield from the plunging dark

Rhythm strives to help them along,
Pumping vital supplies to the weary soldiers.
Soldiers ride upon the fleshly mountain's protruding boulders,
Through now vicious rivers contiguously running red,
And the fields that once stood still take flight instead.
Flowers once in bloom are trampled under foot.
Life now hides in caves covered with soot,
And the Birds no longer awaken the sun with their song.

Should this remain, all is lost.
Blazing arrows now take to the air with fierce vengeance,
And swords clash almost to mute the screaming silence.
These warriors are valiantly fighting for all that is known,
Past, present, future, the seeds that once were sown
Shall never push their heads through the soil's viscosity,
If the sun does not rise and the water soak the fleshly morality.
It is this battlefield upon which we strive that is secretly at cost.

By Aimee R.M. Condon