Swords that clash and clang with might,
Blood is spilled but still they fight,
For honor, glory, money, land,
Or little child with helpless hand?
They fight to save those who are weak,
Those who think themselves too meek,
They fight for those who fell before,
And of course those they adore.
Defenders of what they think right,
Neither wrong, just filled with fright.
The Other's thoughts are strange and new,
And change is something they won't do.
Neither wants to fight this war.
No-one likes the blood and gore.
But they will fight till Other falls,
To keep them from each other's walls.
A difference is a war-like shout,
That causes fights and fearsome doubt.
But difference is a coloured sky,
and beauty to the naked eye.
Difference- while the start of war,
Is splendor, charm, and so much more.
It is grandeur to behold,
And worth much more than precious gold.
I didn't really like the how this poem ended but it's good enough for me to post (for now).
