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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

The battlefield

The battlefield.

Words; were drawn-
like kenshi swords.
uncouthly uttered.
Nuts got crashed;
Ego's punctured..
premises for bargain;
cancelled, then, "FIRE!"
They struck me-
with a back hand,
and bashed me with firm fists.
Endless sobs.
Blood spilled all over the floor,
'At least I died for the truth;'
a cause, I suppose.

The truth is like a sword,
sharp with honesty,
hard to come like modesty.
when drawn to strike;
it wields no empathy;
Ayeh, why when spoken,
does it cut deep and leave one broken?

Yet as a sword, it is blunt.
and when unspoken, it will haunt.
the mind of its holder that longs to be blunt.
Albeit fears to utter and go over board.

Colour me red if you must;
Ayeh, I shall speak the truth as a form of trust.

If you like gory pieces check out The meadow

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