A Poem of no Title

A shout shattering a thousand stars,
Still in stand with a univerise torn,
A million souls, screaming afar,
In a sound so mystical, and forlorn.

Falls of withered leaves of tree,
Winters of a reddish sun,
The month of June called on with plea,
Yet answers came from noone.

Flags of places where we don't belong,
Colors that made up histories we mock,
Names made of letters we don't comprehend,
We say the names each day,
Names we never felt.

Quarrels and disputes,
Over a lost cause,
The crimson spilled,
On a stony road.
We stumble upon the dead and kneel,
Seeing they're long gone,
Their lives we steal.

We trade all their misery,
With a smile of perfection,
We kill them yet again,
With a Providence rejection.
We pray to God for ultimate deliverance,
We shed glass-like tears,
Yet token our hatred,
With firey feelings, of persistence.

We clash, we crush,
We break our bones,
And stand up on a crutch,
To fight some more.

It's Pride and Vanity,
Mistaken for dignity,
And those hearts and minds,
Depend on a play of dice.

Alone we stand,
At the end of the day
Obsolete, wounded, and in dismay,
The color-masked faces,
Are now pale white,
As we wait upon it to cease,
This endless night.