War of Words

Your war of words in broken terms,
Spoken out of a choking throat,
Made by bending all good form,
Dug to serve as your verbal moat.

Seen to seem to see so true,
Your hand is red and so are you,
Spotted liar, vicious rile, play your tune,
Sing your song under a whole, white moon.

The book is written in cold yellow,
Authored by the hands unseen, unloving,
While we're at home growing lean,
Starving away, slowly, on velvet pillows.

A game of English, old and silly,
Black- and white-clad maidens play and giggle,
Dancing circles over sand-strewn landscapes,
The sky is empty and the grapes are rotten.

Quite the classic case of confusion.