Under Banners of Blood

A flag of blood-red

dripping in the wind.

A mob of souls marching

to a beat with no end.

Their faces are fierce,

their bosoms each broken.

They scream out their anthem

with words all have spoken.

They think they can save,

calling more to their fight.

But all that they add

is one more to their plight.

For strength in numbers

is no strength at all

if nobody knows

how to make their foe fall.

Thus onward they march

under banners of pain,

to solace the ones

that they cannot save.

They aim to be saviors:

poets, artists—voices.

But all that they preach

are the faults in their choices.

They write out their lives

as true as they are:

void of solaced ending

and covered in scars.

It’s a forever-scarring picture,

a self-destructive poem.

It stops the maker’s healing,

and freezes reader’s problems.

Frozen and burning, they both now wander on.

Hand in hand for comfort, together to be lost.

Perhaps, banner switched,

they’d find more success.

Under flags of blood shed

for their souls they might rest.

Written is the truth,

its answers engraved

in the testament of time

there is hope for a change.