War (A Portmanteau)

One or all dead
nature looks back with empty eyes that cannot know our burden overwhelms us as we turn to ritual we turn away from each other we are at peace in the stillness of our souls sold or given away to possess an object or heart of another looks back with empty eyes we are lost as we stand against it is our nature cycles growth and harvest and feels nothing and nothing we feel too late we see our place in the cycle is the torched earth awaiting the stillness of a winter