Oscar War (A Tyrants Rebuttal)

Shadows creep on the desert floor,
beneath the sullen stray grieving sky,
betwixt imprudence, this insidious amore,
Hark! O wasteland, thus you and I.
Every now and then at fringes,
of my red and dripping sight,
Fallen angels grasping torn pages,
on dunes of sand do just alight.
What read thou, O lifeless leaves?
which way doth my war earn scorn?
for whom doth thy dear holder grieve?
is it I, of roses the hurtful thorn?
If even so, I could not give
the slightest care for mortal law,
of war I breathe, and death I live,
of hate I love, and I its flaw.