Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.|
His wounded leg caused him great stress yet nevertheless
the soldier advanced wielding his sword merciless -
cutting down the enemy like a farmer in harvest season.
He left a trail of severed hands, limbs 'n heads
and numerous agonizing, butchered bodies for dead .
With surgical precision, his blade slided
through muscle 'n organs and shattered bones -
blood, guts and vomit covered the cobblestones.
As he looked back, victory he roared
his face was painted with his victims' gore.
The stench of death filled the air --
soon decaying flesh full of maggots
will be impossible to bear.
War is a smelly bloody mess --
hopefully we will never have
to deal with its ugliness.
Write a poem about a mess! As long as your poem is about making a mess, or encorporates the topic of messes, anything goes. Creative approaches are welcomed. Contest voters will be asked to consider the topic when making a choice for a winner. Now let's get sloppy!|