The Futility of Conflict

Speaks for itself

The Futility of Conflict

When kings cry “honour,” shadows stir,

and men, like moths, to ruin fly.

The trumpet’s breath, a poisoned whirr,

bids youth to bleed while old men lie.

The field is but a theatre grim

where fate, unmasked, mocks mortal pride;

each sword stroke writes a requiem

for hopes that marched and swiftly died.

What profit hath the victor won

who stands upon a silent plain?

The crown he grasps outstares the sun,

yet drips with tears he can’t explain.

For war is but a circling wheel

it turns, and all are ground the same.

The gods look on, their hearts of steel,

and whisper, “Man knows not his shame.”

Thus peace is but a brittle breath,

a pause between the dirge and roar.

And all our vaunted dreams of death

prove naught but dust, and nothing more.

Phillozofee@2026

Author's Note

Current affairs

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Nobody really wins a war. Both sides suffer so much loss, and for what?

Nothing gained...Control? Power? ugh.

"Peace is but a brittle breath"
I wish I had written that line.
j.