• The pure white canvas has been stained,
    the deep red crimson of disdain.
    Like blood spilt from those who've been slain,
    fixed in your mind like a haunting refrain.

    Why can hands never be wiped clean,
    of all the things that are obscene?
    Inside, your mind continues to scream,
    crying for the end of this bloody dream.

    Is there anything wrong with wanting peace,
    to want the unending nightmare to cease,
    to break all chains and find release
    and make the flow of death decrease?

    Slowly, so slowly, the world is dying,
    due to the violence, the pain and the lying.
    But life can return if all continue trying,
    standing and fighting, and ending the crying.

    Blood washes away and the world's still alive.
    Ending war to grasp the hope for which all strive
    With the end of death all now survive.
    So hopefully, someday, all will thrive.