Dogs of war, I know thee:
Verily, I have walked through the valley of
death.
I have seen the spirits of the damned dance upon
the wind. They have no being, no conscience, no
feeling, they are the slaves of death. They exist
to haunt the inner sanctum of understanding. In this
valley rivers of blood have flowed freely in times
of war, and that red potion which gives all life is
absorbed into the dust, as it flows the land dies ,
and the bowels of the earth groan in grotesque agony.
Deaths bony fingers reach upward, clawing, dragging
that which once was, down into the dark realm of the
reaper of flesh. Clutching, then binding the victim,
suffocating in a frenzied daze until that which was
flesh returns to dust.
Twisting spires rise ever upward from the cracked and
cragged ground. They are unsightly and bleak as they
rise above the parched earth encircling this barren
land. holding it in a death grip, as the mighty python
that is about to crush and consume it's prey. these
jagged mal-formed spires are wicked and miserable in
appearance, gray and grim as the garb of the exiled.
They hover over the macabre valley as prison bars to
shield the habitat of death from the sun. The breeze
cannot flow, the Rain cannot cleanse, life as we know
it is non-existent upon the face of this valley of
horror.
The scorching sun struggles to rise and find it's way
to the entrance of the harbinger of death. Higher and
higher it rises to filter through the clenched fists
of the shadow of death. Upon the suns entrance it is
magnified as a beam of sunlight through a magnifying
glass. Intense, blistering as it streams through the
crooked sky to reveal the evil beneath the shadows.
The Time of revelation will be short upon this patch
of damned ground, but these magnificent beams of light
heat the surface to such a degree that it boils the
crust beneath, bubbling up into view the souls of
the damned.
Dancing, writhing, transparent. Barely visible to the
naked eye they struggle to rise and escape the grip of
their captor. They appear to us as rippling heat waves
rising just inches from the parched and heated ground.
they writhe and twist but a few feet above the surface
to dissipate into nothingness. Unable to free themselves
from the grasp of death. The force of the sun beating
them back into the crevices from where they came. The
heat of the day will pass, and the demons of the valley
of death will return to their earth. They will wait for
what will seem to them an eternity for the next passing
of the sun to seek release.
Yea, I have walked through the valley of death.
And, as
darkness falls upon this portion of my earth, it is
inevitable that I will return to this valley upon the
closing of the windows of my soul. Exiled in solitude
To View the carnage of this war of thoughts. Yea though
I live in the present, I remain a prisoner of the past.
I am recognized by the demons of the night.
I am known as a Vietnam Veteran.
For this honor, there is no release....
Boondocker, 5/5/2001
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