There seems to lie a certain charm in war,
Beauty in the soaring bullets you hear.
Elation in charging up with a roar,
A distinct joy in the enemy’s fear.
Why else does man carry on fighting,
Drawn into it like a magnet’s firm pull?
The god of war has to be delighting,
As our bodies are scattered with lead full.
Yet I cannot spot that grisly allure,
Even after countless years of combat.
Mangled bodies buried in a sewer,
I somehow don’t find the appeal in that.
The only answer fills me with distress:
Ares’ flame is not something I possess.