In the dark,
All alone,
We walk.
We try,
Or so we think,
To find light.
We travel through,
Thinking we are looking.
How few of us,
Can see the light,
With eyes open.
Everything is light,
We just chose to be blind.
Blind,
In the darkness.

Life is a endless winding road,
with many turns,
dead ends,
and forks.
The path cannot be seen,
only followed.
The follower is alone some times,
or accompanied by others,
treading the same path.
But the only certainty,
the only constant,
is the path will end.
It does not matter how much we want it to,
it does not matter how we try,
how long we prolong it,
we will meet our end.
Always.

I am off mother,
to the war over yonder.
Do not shed your tears,
hoard them,
in the case,
that the miser that is war,
take me.
I will fight for the faceless men,
who declare war in spite,
hate,
and anything they can veil in the tattered name of 'justice'.
I will fight against my brother,
through the land,
be it grass or forest,
swamp or sand.
My friends I grow to know so well,
ones that I was close to as if we were brothers our entire life,
die by my side,
with no hope of survival.
I will fight to the gates of the other faceless man,
to **** him because we are told to.
When the deed is done,
I will come home,
but you will not know me.
I will be haunted,
by those faces of the one I killed,
for those without a face.
And if I do not return,
be in comfort,
for I will be in Heaven,
for I have already been in Hell.

What are the strong?
The weak?
The strong are powerful,
gods walking upon man.
The weak are ants,
little things that cannot do anything by themselves.
The strong bicker.
The weak agree.
The strong are feared.
The weak are respected.
The strong are alone.
The weak are never alone.
The strong are in constant fear of death.
The weak have no fear,
for they have friends on call.
The strong belittle each other.
The weak lift up each other.
The strong.
The weak.
Who is better off?

A hill,
Green with a touch of brown.
I sit at the top,
Seeing all and nothing.
The wind,
Who whispers forgotten secrets in my ear.
The birds,
Who sing melodies only they can understand.
The trees,
The silent sentinels of the shrub and grass,
Kings among kings.
The sky,
A replication of emotions,
Crying like we do, beaming when we do.
The squirrels,
Who thieve,
But give something back in return,
As if doing so in guilt.
I feel the staff,
A cold, hard comfort.
I open my eyes,
Seeing the pasture behind,
The field before me,
The wood at my left and right,
And more of the wood in the distance ahead.
I close my eyes,
Seeing everything from my mind’s eye,
And smile.