The fruit of war takes many flavors

for which he tastes all the many.

In this world of words, war runs far more

rampant than the swinging of an axe. In this world of words, more battles take form than

The seeker may ever perceive. How simple it is, for even a miniscule

Utterance to bring upon anger and suffering.

 

Chaos…

Chaos dwindles within the venom of a serpent’s strike.

Its tongue so sensible, yet so sharp.

How could he have ever known that the messenger would

 be the one to bring him such pleasure?

The messenger’s slithering motions reveal so little, but he knows the truth.

For in a world of Cold and technology, one strike is all it may take

To bring upon all that he seeks.

 

Until then, he enjoys the entertainment.

The peasants and their cries,

The leaders and their lies,

The warlords and their craving eyes.

 

Until then he waits,

Chariot in sight,

The blazing wheels that seek to fight.

 

For the taste is plentiful,

Though the satiation is never truly achieved.

For the fruits never extinguish his flame.