It could be words, taunts, silence, or all of it, in chain
You could bleed, not in literal, but from the heart, maybe soul
Yet if it hasn't killed you, most would not think it was a war
I keep my words in check, polish them,to gleam
They cut through the stuffy air, often surrounding me,
It could be of ambiguity, even of desperation
And if lovers are not at war, who is
Aren't the soldiers much like lovers
Standing their grounds in uncertainties, for a wayward slash, a hail of bullets
One may not hear a rumble of tanks, but the rumble of absence, is as deafening
I have long heard it, to know
Now it is nothing less that an orchestra, in the backdrop
Fronted by a waving stick, the mind at best is the worst conductor
So the next time you bleed, check and heal,
Scrape the dead skin, and set foot on new grounds
Look around, find those that you wish well towards
In a war, you are not the only one to be in torment
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