Alone, in the same old crowd, trying to ignore this stifling pain. I am but

The storm is brewing. I smell it in the air. I am panicking. I fear this tempest might cost my life.

Something whispers, certainly not nothing. A subtle impetus to choose to stir and rise

I am that scruffy urchin trembling in the winter chill, with hungry eyes as wide as your fancy dinner plate, staring with an empty longing

“Don’t say anything!” spoke the shadow in the doorway. I was seven years of age. I lay limp upon the couch, still recovering from

Weep for the fallen warriors. Weep for those souls considered collateral damage. Weep for the profiteers. Weep for the deserters.

Here he comes again, riding tall upon his hellish steed… Dead eyes red, charging straight towards me. No joy in that demonic laugh,

These words I cry do not come easily; as if they echo from the cold stone depths of a long forgotten tomb.

I gaze into the bleakness of the e… engulfed by a sense of futility an… I am like the man who keeps fishin… though he knows the river is spent… I cast my line into the milky pool…

Forgiveness? Not on your life. My life was stolen from me. For what?

Cast adrift in an unknown sea. By my pride. Alone Missing you,

I am awash with tears of mourning for what I thought was dead and go… as though a flood of holy water has broken through the stony dam I contrived to spare this brittle…