WHEN THE HORSES RUN
Hidebound archers riding their steeds,
firing at will into the opposite crowd.
My mind's eye sees fallen men motioning
downward as blood spouts from their mouths.
War? Old war? Who invented this hideous sport?
Why should I listen to tired men shouting their
venom to minds already made up for their side?
The live ones die. The dead ones seem
to just continue living.
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