War or Strife—yes, you were always painted
Incarnadine, hematic, flushed with passion,
Sanguine—we depicted you acquainted
With ruby hues the rage in mortal fashion.
And yet to see you ever closer, rolling
Elliptical through emptiness, our gazes
Are met now with a gaze past our controlling,
Red as an eyeball through which blood amazes,
And stony blind. Although we have created
Gods and goddesses of loathing, doting,
They neither love nor hate us, are defeated
By telescopes that taper into nothing,
A stare reflecting on itself, a pleasure
Cold and ferric, nothing we can treasure.