All the visions were of war
And all the ink spots were blood
All the figures were serrated
Wearing trophies of the fallen
Haunted by frenzy and blood lust

I was asked if I can draw something else
I couldn't, I really couldn't
When the hand meets the paper
All the figures would die
And my little world
Would bathe in blood

It's been years
The ink spots are now words
And underneath the words
All the visions are of conflict
And the coloring is sharp, black and red
All the figures are serrated
And seek trophies
To sate their frenzy, still.