Pretty In Pink

My lady calmly crests the hill.

She wears the pink colors of innocence,

     her steed white enough to blind your eyes.

The battle stops as if every man has turned to stone.

Holding, with caution, her delicate pink parasol

     above her steed’s handsome, nodding head.

 She tilts her rose-tinted face as she comes slowly down the hill

     Smiling as if seeing not the insanity that has taken place.

  She sees not the dark red blood and gore running in rivulets,

     limbs now belonging to no one, strewn about recklessly

     as if they had dropped from the sky.

My lady smiles as she meets the eyes of the frozen fighters

     knowing that this battle has everything to do with her.

Knowing that with one word she can stop the carnage.

She takes no notice of the breezes bringing to her the

     overwhelming smell of warm fresh blood.

Her steed tiptoes through the entrails of men no longer men

     and moves its ears forward to the sounds of moaning.

Both steed and lady proudly walk onward

     and over the next hill.

The battle resumes its ferocity.