Price Of War Poem by Anthony Iskander

The stomping of hooves, the cries of war,
The ever-haunting roars and screams.
Good ol' times, in the times before,
Resonate only in broken dreams.

The blood of the innocent, the slaughter of babes,
All shed in the name of their crusades.
All for naught, and naught for all.
The price so high, the prize so small.

No place to live, no place to hide
None can escape the deadly blade's fall.
From the lowly valleys to the towering hillside,
In times of war, the Devil calls.

Homes destroyed, families torn.
Many are gone, the few shall mourn.
In these battles that are so futile,
We must ask, are they worthwhile?