Spoils of War

Wisps of mist waft over the battlefield
Where to?
Who cares? Questions have faded long ago,
along with the crying.
Righteousness lies in the mud, regally wafted-over
by wisps representing nothing.
Sure meant something once. Shored-up words
safely shelved away,
unclaimed and unlikely to be retrieved
by those under the mist
nor those traversing the results, treading lightly –
‘Let’s not talk about this anymore.’

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