Your Own Fault. Poem by Eleria Williams

How sweet, my love,
Be it your scent,
your eyes,
Your taste.
How bitter my dear,
Be your tongue,
Your words,
What a waste.
Your gun by your side,
Head cleanly shaved,
Wearing all green,
With red blood,
You couldn't be saved.
How tragic, my baby,
Giving up your life,
Trying to kill others,
Playing with knives.
How ironic, my sweet,
That it's kill or be killed,
Fighting against soldiers,
That are highly skilled.
How depressing, my spouse,
That no one comes first,
In this bloody game,
Where people just thirst.
How sad, my foe,
That no one lets their worries show,
Keeping their emotions at bay,
Never letting go.
How fun, my games,
Where no one ever get's saved,
And in that coffin where you lay,
Not going to fight another day