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