Years ago, was fought a war, a war so filled with fear
With thoughts of glory, and nations’ prides, disturbed summer nights clear.
Pistols and guns, tanks and crafts, they raged on through the night.
And left many lovers, bereaved souls, the war on the world a blight.
And years have passed, long years hence, since the din of guns fell silent.
But yet today, we have no peace, for our hearts are no less violent.
And a war so empty of pride, filled with shame and remorse,
Has no one ever witnessed such, for love is but a farce.
Empty words, of praise and hurt, flung with love and malice,
Sweet and sour, times apart, made in the same chalice.
Words that hurt, words that cut, words that pierce your heart.
Are bandied about, in the venom of hatred, Cupid was never there to depart.
And victims many does this war leave, fiercer than the plague.
With hung necks and slit wrists, the pain never felt so vague.
For each death is but a number, a victim of this beast.
Victims of themselves, victims of love, this plague shall have its feast.
For love has become but a farce, but feelings haven’t been scarce.