Peace And War

Peace walked out in a pure white dress,
And hair done in some french style.
She was all dolled up for a night on the town,
But when she returned she was no longer peace.
But war ravaged by unspeakable horrors.

Her white dress had become blood red,
Embroidered with dreams of dead men,
And bejewelled with cyrstallized tears
Of mothers, wives, and children.

She wore a patch over her left eye,
Which a sharp shooter had set his sights on,
And with a click of the trigger
Blew it to pieces.
Her right eye ball, pulled out by
A mad man's bayonet, dangled from its socket.
She kept reaching for her arm,
But she felt horrible shooting pains
In a part that no longer exsisted.

Are they phantom pains or pains of a phantom?

All the time she was trying to balance herself.
Her weight supported
By a mere knob of a leg.
She finally fell onto her back,
And she flailed and rolled to fight off death,
But she was defeated as always.

There on the ground in place of war
Was this amorphic puddle,
But then the blob began to take shape.
Like the phoniex she was born anew.