The disciplined sound of boots on the ground grew louder
The war machine must be fed
It will accept no other type of food it is offered
Except the warm liquid
Rich in its smell and colored crimson red

It will heap chaos and death upon the world
For what it must have and needs
For in order to remain alive
It must continually feed
And transform the constant stream of blood it consumes
Into paper printed, stamped and green

There is no price to high even in human lives
Or depths to low
It will not traverse
Or without conscience embrace
Not knowing its endless thirst for battle it can never fully sate
Unaware that which fuels the heart of the monster
Will at last seal its fate


@All Rights Reserved Tammy M. Darby July 4, 2024
All Material Stored in Author Base.