A war is fought between white and red, Kings and Queens, their armies and steeds. White for purity, red for blood. Who will win-- the answer fluxed in your head. But since we’re all birds, we all think the same. So what is the answer, fire-like flame?
I am red, you are white. I am not the bird, I am lost in flight. Floating high, flying free, the birds migrate without me. Stuck in a box, a cage you might say, a bluejay came to set it free. But flight without wings is exemplary of a stupid bird, one that will fall to the ground and bleed on the floor. It will leave stain on your fresh new heart, motive resembling cries for help, laying alone in the dark.
If one bird bleeds, don’t the others bleed too? Haunted by feelings that feel so new. There is no virtue, there is no refrain, because the ability to stop is masked by the choice to be uncontained. Out of control, out of the mind, mentally insane, words must rhyme. They rhyme as a tune, a piece of art, skin matched with skin, grave matched with scar.
“War will commence,” the Majesty screams, "It will continue until there are no more spots for bodies to lay. Fight to the grave, fight with the mind, fight using weapons, fight by smarts. Two sides, the pure and the stained, only one can win, only one can remain."
What is the answer, who will win? Tell me, tell me, mind’s fire-like flame.
Flux and die slowly like a combination of patience and stabbed heart, you just lay there and die, unsteady as feather dart. Haunted by the masses of those deceased, the war breaks people who were nowhere near becoming a beast. It creates a monster, the battle of red and white, the Kings and Queens dictate decisions from the start. No one can run, no one can hide, no one can escape the feelings thought to be resigned. There is a war, a complicated set, disillusion of majestic innocence and what’s bled.
