Oh How It Grows Weary
The extension of his arm split the air in two,
filling itself with a lot less than that of pride.
The command to fall strikes the heart of a few;
as widows gaze on the cliff and beyond the tide.
Oh how it grows weary.
Laying on the ground, hidden within the soil
is the wake of latter destruction and its splinter.
How often do the screams reflect upon the foil
as it delivers the oath of hardship through winter?
Oh how it grows weary of response.
Infantry trample and curse along the lowly dirt
neglecting its thirst now bloody below the belt.
Marching on, they disregard the destined hurt
as if the king may loathe feeling -love- never felt.
Oh how it grows weary of response and tyrants.
The extension of his arm split the air in two,
filling itself with a lot less than that of pride.
The command to fall strikes the heart of a few;
as widows gaze on the cliff and beyond the tide.
Oh how it grows weary.
Laying on the ground, hidden within the soil
is the wake of latter destruction and its splinter.
How often do the screams reflect upon the foil
as it delivers the oath of hardship through winter?
Oh how it grows weary of response.
Infantry trample and curse along the lowly dirt
neglecting its thirst now bloody below the belt.
Marching on, they disregard the destined hurt
as if the king may loathe feeling -love- never felt.
Oh how it grows weary of response and tyrants.
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