FicWad

So the sun settles over the trenches
aye, how morbid it spews its shine
beating its pallid fingers
over thee in thy weakest perch

Thou kissed the dust, widdle inkling
but it wouldn't kiss thee back
for some it is worse surviving
a blow that was aimed for death

Now the palest of sweet, white mornings
come falling upon thy head
and angels of arches keep singing
"Thou shall pray for their regret!"

Though the bullets may have stopped hailing
and silence consumed the plains
no eleventh hour treaty
will stop the war in thy veins