The man strides to the marching
drums, blood hot for the boiling
fray, beside him marches kin and
friends, comrades all for the ******
fray. On roll the marching drums, pipes
skirl and trumpets bray, all to the sound
of stomping boots, all to the waiting
fray.


Now, hark to the trumpets sound,
loud and clear in the morning air,
foemen sighted, foemen there! Out
from the town exceeding fair. Now
comes the faster beat, and comes the
sound of running feet, as men roar with
joy and fear as they rush headlong in
the morning clear, as they run to the
speeding fray.


The man lies on the trampled ground,
and listens to the wrenching sound of
the groans and screams of tortured men,
dying there, on the ****** ground.


Away above, beyond the clouds, and over
the buzzards circling, there through a shining
rent, the man near death a vision sees; an eagle
high, balancing, above the fates of Lords and
men. As his dying breath escapes his lips, and
darkness comes to take him home, the man
hears a distant sound; the eagle calling down
farewell, down to the twisted, ****** fell,
above the loud, tumultuous roar of men
survived from the ****** fray, crying all in
joyous voices, "Victory! Victory!"

Bittersweet the memory.

I saw her there, standing in the shade
of a thicket; birch trees in the failing
Autumn. The long grass caressed her;
the wind stirred her hair. Lovely she, in
the failing Autumn, there, on the cusp of
winter. Lightning; storm on the horizon.
Green eyes lifted to catch the rain, falling,
there in the nearing distance. She breathes
in, out, her eyes fall closed as she tastes the
air; rain and soil, sunbaked in the past heat of
the noontime. Grass, wafting upwards. The
trees stir; the shadows of the leaves flit across
her form, face uplifted to the rising storm. Her
raiment snaps, back and forth; the winds uprising,
howling forerunner of the coming storm. Her hair
streams back, a midnight pennant, running out all
behind her. The roaring of the winds upsurges in its
splendor, its howling crescendo reached at last; The trees
bend, backwards in the gale, graceful in their dying,
leaves torn and scattered, out among the plains, and
across the rippling grasses, soaring in the ecstasy of
the winds. She stands, there, in the moment before the
storm, straight she is, and tall, swaying as the trees wherein
she stands, pale in the twilight. The wind howls in wanton
abandon, wild and glorious; rain strikes the waiting earth,
the grass bends in homage, down before the fury of the torrent
descending.
The lightning cracks in the darkling sky,
the thunder roars in violent time; the storm falls
in the failing Autumn; darkness comes
in the clouds obscurity, ebon in the raging heavens,
and all was lost there, save the wind, and the rain,
and the darkness of the storm.

I saw her there, standing in the shade
of a thicket; birch trees in the failing
Autumn. The long grass caressed her;
the wind stirred her hair. Lovely she, in
the failing Autumn, there, on the cusp of
winter. Lightning; storm on the horizon.
Green eyes lifted to catch the rain, falling,
there in the nearing distance. She breathes
in, out, her eyes fall closed as she tastes the
air; rain and soil, sunbaked in the past heat of
the noontime. Grass, wafting upwards. The
trees stir; the shadows of the leaves flit across
her form, face uplifted to the rising storm. Her
raiment snaps, back and forth; the winds uprising,
howling forerunner of the coming storm. Her hair
streams back, a midnight pennant, running out all
behind her. The roaring of the winds upsurges in its
splendor, its howling crescendo reached at last; The trees
bend, backwards in the gale, graceful in their dying,
leaves torn and scattered, out among the plains, and
across the rippling woodlands, soaring in the ecstasy of
the winds. She stands, there, in the moment before the
storm, straight she is, and tall, swaying as the trees wherein
she stands, pale in the twilight. The wind howls in wanton
abandon, wild and glorious; rain strikes the waiting earth,
the grass bends in homage, down before the torrent
descending. The lightning cracks in the darkling sky,
the thunder roars in violent time; the storm falls
in the failing Autumn; darkness comes
in the clouds obscurity, ebon in the raging heavens,
and all was lost there, save the wind, and the rain,
and the darkness of the storm.

I stare, down into the
indigo darkness of the
sea. Land is far from me,
and horizons darken with the
mass of storms. Alone I wander,
and land is far from me, alone
in the gloam with the sky and the
sea. Light shining in the darkling
depths, heralds of the raven night,
a storm is brewing and day is gone,
and land is far from me.

I wander on.

conflict is eternal, present, real.
To attain peace is not to erase
conflict, but to accept it, not to
embrace your enemy as a friend,
but to accept that he is as he is, ****
him, and move on.

A girl I once saw,
and her eyes were
green as the grass
in springtime, and
her face was soft,
innocent,and fresh,
and yet her eyes were
cold and distant, and
in them were distance,
and an apathy to swall-
ow the world. She was
broken and harsh and
silent and alone.

And I loved her.

What is life, but the ending of
death? Long pain and fleeting joys,
to be taken away at the Final Dark.

Long pain with no beginning,
joy fast, far, and fleeting.
Life a stretch of joys and
sorrows, Death a release to
soft tomorrows.

Endless Cycle.