Minima

Their march had led them to the gates,
the final maneuver of a dark campaign.
Their armies had filled the angel's halls,
while the cannon screamed "hatred" against it's wall.

This is a war
{beloved}
this is a crusade.

His drive had led him to her door,
their clothes, now in foxholes, on the floor.
The carpet heralded the shells in tears,
I bet it's cold (where you are) this time of year.

If this tundra's your escape
then misery moves in such a way
that her stomach isn't full until it's choked down the last of land
my poor reaction is off I know
but sadness just sinks in snow
and buries itself deeper than you or I had planned.