The Game of War

Upon the Salisbury fields so wide,  

A metal bird begins to glide.  

No feathers, breath, nor beating heart,  

Yet trained to tear the world apart.  

A hand unseen, a visor bright,  

A soldier plays with borrowed sight.  

No need to crawl, no need to bleed,  

When war is waged by hand-held screen.  

Across the sea, in shattered stone,  

The same small drones have found a home.  

Through tunnels dark, through broken halls,  

They heed their masters’ silent calls.  

Not just to watch, but strike with fire,  

A swarm obeys the cold desire.  

A toy at first, but now refined—  

A gift of death, by design.  

The future hums in plastic wings,  

An age of war where no one sings.  

Where eyes will burn and hearts will freeze,  

And killing comes with practiced ease.  

One war today, the next unknown—  

A lesson learned, a weapon honed.  

The drone that flies from distant land,  

One day may hover close at hand.