Jack screamed sillily
Trilling along the border,
the edge loomed nearer…
of the known world at least.
The archer notched his arrow.
He was not yet eighteen.
But drafted
for his country.
Older days, of mystery and castles, lords, ladies, feuds and feudal lands;
before science hit the starting block.
Green blankets where cities stand
towering skyscrapers of another kind,
of wood and oats.
Knights strode
reminiscent of Cyclops
for his visor was singular.
But I digress,
Jack screamed.
for the archer's arrow had indeed leapt off the bow.
Jack made no sound.
Jack was as victim of war… but as well a perpetrator.
I like to believe there is always a choice.
This is truly a false sentiment.