Where Hecatombs Suffice

Obedient armies, winged on war, despair
Before their shared great dread who sits within
Each stolen heart upon a leaden chair
And orders all to fight their very kin.
A great hurrah flies up on either side,
As weapons drum and smash a song of wars;
Upon a surge of blood and fear they ride
In group to group whose flesh their flesh adores.
They do not fight for mothers, fathers, pride,
Not for their nations, brothers, sisters, need,
Not for their sobbing lovers have they died,
And not for any thought or any creed.
All flesh is offered up in sacrifice
To that within where hecatombs suffice.