Tiny blue saplings sprout from the soil,
our dirty hands meet,
from envy, from greed
they rose and they promise to be loyal.
.
Saplings grow, they reach for the sky.
We'd only do good,
of course we would,
we apprise ourselves with another lie.
.
Branches grow on purple trees.
Another try,
another lie,
we're shaking hands to live in peace.
.
The branches are growing, developing thorns.
We fight over paper,
with more we feel safer,
about a catastrophe nobody warns.
.
Branches are covered in crimson and black.
Another try,
another lie,
we're driven to conflict and then we attack.
.
The saplings have grown and changed their form.
We're running around,
crawling on the ground,
escaping the lands of bullet storms.
.
The branches have broken and withered away.
Millions have died
for two men have lied,
and now they're wondering how to repay
when all they say
is another lie.
YOU ARE READING
Another Lie
PoetryThis was originally gonna stay in my notebook but somebody went through it and told me I should publish the poem :/ So here it is, a poem about war. I hope it makes sense.
