We, the victors

These hands,
Bent and broken,
Brutal tools of battle,
Rippling with rivulets of red,
Now claws.

No more,
The friends we lost,
It took them like the scythe
Our sisters, brothers, all to dust,
All dead.

We won,
Banners held high,
Yet still the blood was wet
As goblets were raised in triumph.
We won?

Tides turn.
It happened then,
The waters got too deep,
And we were stranded on a rock,
Too late.

Our fault.
We chose to fight.
No compromise was sought,
It takes two fools to stand on pride.
War came.

These hands,
The friends we lost,
Yet still the blood was wet
And we were stranded on a rock.
War came.

 

This piece was written for Nika Harper’s Wordplay #15. The challenge was a cinquain, with the prompts “weak hands” and “won the battle but started a war.”

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