The War was over. The sky matched the ebony of the earth beneath, the silence reverberated across the valley. The War... Was it, though? The smoke spoke of fireballs descending from above, the abnormal mass of smaller blackened bodies suggested a massacre. The War was over.
'We'll be on the beach again soon,' she croaked, through the tubes. I nodded, hardly looking up from The Gruffalo. So I waited. At the beach. Everyday. For fifty years. And realized not long ago, that I was the one running late.
The moon sneaked a peek through the clouds. The man and shovel were at it again. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered. The bundle was the smallest yet.
The scent of blood; shrill The sound of battalions; Noxious. I see time, Come at me like a Bloodthirsty warrior, a hound, A mad cannibal. Surely my future Lies in the stars. So why do They dig out my grave?
When the sun bids goodbye And the world bears down with fatigue Reality knocks. White masks faces Red cries rivers. The heavens salute the undead, The price paid by the childless and orphaned.