the trouble with war

Aftermath.

Ghosts that haunt dark places, unexpectedly touching your shoulder as you pass by.

Scattered remains, charred; an assualt on the memories.

The smell, dry like charcoal.

Panic and fear are still dark waters at the bottom of your body, they are heavy stones dragging down your soul.

The place where your eye falls upon the broken landscape, searching.

For the defiant beauty, to peirce the dark veil, like a knife in reverse:

the wound of life across death's cheek.


*****

You know, it's not arranged very well at, as verse, or prose, but I think you get the idea. I wrote all this shit down awhile back actually, and it has sat around for some time... I guess you readers who read this all the time remember back in the day when I spoke of the 50 plus blogs that sit around like deformed aborted children, soulless husks belched up from the sixth dimension...

I'm trying to say its just a bunch of words, incomplete thoughts, emotions hacked at by a butcher possessed of too much zeal for his work.

But I think you get the point.