They march on. Intensity craves into the lands, through and through, departure from cascade of a hot summer storm.
With nothing but the imprints of life before, left behind; heading on, to where ever the compass leads.
The feet look nothing but straggling to keep on, with heavy weights of packs and resolve tall thin stature of hope, disappearing each breath taken by them. With the rumple of thunder strike, the nonconformists and trots of body armor cars trailing ahead or behind, to that a forever so echo through the bewilderment of afforest.
To that when the sun sets afar, the moon will rise. Yet, the bombs keep falling. Screams of fleeting life fill the air as the downpour masks it, but for only so long, as in night, it’s gone. Harbor high in the sky; blank as the faces of the unknown death.
Spotted with unnumbered of stars; just as bodies littering the cold ground of night: but soon warmth and baked by the hell’s heat of the sun. As to that again, days pass, nothing changes.
With that, the nameless and faceless men move on, stepping where their fellow man or enemy once walked upon, unknowing of who, is never clear of each, as that the difference is only notice by belief, leader, and battle jacket.
Who’s to care of whom is fallen, nurturing the lands of muster gas, iron bullets, reflects weapons colliding all for one thing, but the matters of it, have been for gotten.
It’ll whispering pass one lips for that it’s not forgotten, but, all that is sadly a lie. As even so, bombs strapped close and ready to blow, only mean for that more will follow.
Messages of freedom are clear, yet more men go, hoping and asking to a voice that never replies back, even on that of stroke of luck, it was all on person surviving, that is all.
Short wins they are all, sweet for a second, only to have an acid aftertaste, as once again it starts all over again.
For there is no other way to solve something, warriors must trek the lands, train to pull an object to scatter the kinship of an unknown face with an unknown name, just as the one pulling the trigger will know outside the world, that trained the trigger to be.
Vanishing to nothing but forming something; as days and nights passing, cold darkness with baking sunshine, a life to fall and rise, repeating history without knowing, but understanding that things change, yet not even close to the ways still programmed into one’s mind.
As the battles go on, the fleeting memoires is all one will have left. Heavy feet and armor trucks craving into the ground of weeks rainstorm, cooled by a hopeless blank night of cold praises of something to go right, alas conflicting for the wrong.
With maybe one question lasting forever in one’s mind, that what is war, structuring slowly but surely to, what was war?
A common dream left in the wake of scared battle field of world’s life.
Puddle by Maurits Cornelis “M.C.” Escher
Made in the year; 1952
Location when painted; varies areas of Netherlands
About Author
