Beta'd by ToxicKittySaurus, thank you!
Our hopes were torn and scattered,
Much like ripped butterfly wings torn from their body,
Scattered to the winds.
As the war builds up to its crescendo,
We wonder, why do we fight?
Why do we go to our deaths without a pause?
We are simply more bodies used up to fill an ocean of blood,
Our lives are lost amongst the tide of good.
Yet, we don't rebel, for what good would it do?
We'd simply die alone.
The war is at its peak.
The tidings are bad.
Thousands are dead.
Resistance is scattered.
Yet, we live on,
Protesting a tyrant,
Who would kill us all.
There is no hope left,
Only grim determination.
Our wings have been sheared from our bodies,
Without them we shall fall.
Will our deaths be in vain,
Retold as stories to the children of this war?
Will they listen with morbid fascination,
As their murderous families scatter those who could free them,
The children of a dying world.
Our fragile wings are torn,
Our tormentors laugh at our pain.
Their delighted fascination is like a young child at the circus.
The rebellion is ebbing with the tide,
Its wings shredded and scattered to the ocean-sea.
Camp Potter, Arts and Crafts: Mandatory Prompts - Scattered, Butterfly Wings, Crescendo. Optional Prompts - Rebellion, Tide, Bedtime Stories, Fascination.
The Ten Times Ten Challenge, Color: Red.
The Crayola Challenge: Red.