Perfume

the stench of death
clings
to the earth

like a cheap
perfume
on a

worn-out whore.
nations rise
and fall

like drunken fools
stumbling
to their graves

with flags in their
fists
and blood in

their eyes.
the cries
of the fallen

echo through
time,
but the drums

of war
beat on,
relentless

a cadence of
chaos
that drowns out

the screams
of the innocent,
the lost,

the ones who never
knew
why they died

in the mud
with a bullet
in their gut

and a lie in their
heart.
the madness

of men
is a fire that never
fades,

a flame that
consumes all
in its path,

leaving only
ashes,
and the putrid

perfume
of the
pitiless

and the endless
drumbeat
of war.