War

The tense hand so cruel,
that lives are lost,
every of those souls,
comes at anothers cost.

Why should that hand fight over land and space,
squeeze them tightly in its grip,
and bicker over culture and race.

All arms and legs should be treated the same,
so as to forget the days the cold hand came,
and took away the warmth,
of belonging and strength,
replaced it with something,
much worse than the end.

A pain which can last,
even after the finger has been narrowly escaped,
drilling into the mind,
and taking the last days.

For we all feel the hurt,
all feel the pain,
that the hands grip brings upon us,
changes never to return to the same