House of War

hands spinning around to tell the time on the clock,
a smash through the window with a rounded grey rock,
spreading glass over the wooden clean floor,
with a message attached to engage the act of war,
a battle shall commence on the balcony of this place,
hitting with weapons made crudely to replace,
a bat with a knife sticky taped to the end,
the other with a garden tool making sounds to pretend,
hitting harder to draw blood from the skin,
as the other stabs his knife deep within,
tired and sore they both give up close to death,
as the sun rises and they take their last breath,
these are the children we leave to manage after we go,
raised by games of killing or a horror sickening show,
not ever knowing the true way reality actually is,
as the future of the human race is hers or his.