ours the sorrow

Your wars drag rust across the planet,
leave stains of oil not erased by rain.
Ours the struggle, yours the blame.
Ours the sorrow.

Now, at the sight of our bellies,
you show the wolf’s fang,
smiling concerned, almost,
stinking of saliva.

This is total war,
war on all fronts:
war that cannot win,
but only multiply.

Until all curves falter,
until the Asymptote,
when parameters break,
when sand covers the stain.

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