Poem to Ares

His birthplace is looming conflict for the right,
contest between men is sourcering his might,
panic screams around the battlefield are to his delight.

Enemy is getting near,
shaky hands and throats choked with fear,
a strike for bloodthirst,
a cut-off, slowly and firm.
Penetrating flesh and pulling out,
vultures in the sky and dogs in his rout.

You hear the riots of weaponry?
You hear the cracking of bones?
Not for glory, richess nor victory,
but for bloodshed its own.

Call him painful dying of men.
Call him dreads and terror.

Call him Ares,
God of War