Battle Front, by George Chow Subscribe to rss feed for George Chow

When a boy grow up to be a man.
Some with heavy artillery.
Some with magic powers.
Some with feather light hunting.
Some with sharp tricky agility.
To form a mess of a master piece.
Form the peace of an after art.
They roar, breath, and bleed.
Do or die with their fate of destiny.
The end.
Some sit with wholesome stillness.
Some bear on a horse with pride.
Some stand smiles with digniity.
Some lay in peace with holy.
And they were all been teared upon,
their shoulder,
their lips,
their eyes,
their hands.
For those lucky generations begin.
Posted: 2013-03-15 06:47:32 UTC

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