Dread grew in the room as the Overlord of Time walked in, eyes filled with ancient wisdom and rancor.

Be seated, his ghostly voice demanded.

Sitting in near terror, we waited for the Master to give us our orders.

Today, the topic is War.

I gathered all my strength and raised my hand, saying: “But Master, we are forbidden to speak of such an ill subject!”

His endless gaze washed over me.

Young one, for your insolence you will write me a War poem.

“But, sir…”

SILENCE!, the voice commanded.

You will write me a War poem or I will have your spleen!

I meekly accepted the command, with only a sliver of hope that kind souls will help me accomplish the dark task at hand.