The great wars
The pain is always there -
But like any twisted force of evil, it veils itself in the shadows of your demons and ghosts poised to strike only at your weakest. For it is a predator, a carnal beast - and like any true creature of prey, it goes straight for the jugular from behind.
There are no limits in the wild, there are no unfair plays or immoral tactics all the planet is a battlefield and all that is on it weapons to wield as you may.
When you lie awake in the earliest hours of the morning and the latest hours of the night.
When you’ve laid down your sword and shield for the day and stripped off your armour.
When the raging torrents of emptiness chase off any hope of sleep.
Then creatures of the night wrap their lanky frames of doubt and hopelessness around your resting arms.
Then they step out to play their dark games with your fading consciousness, wielding the night to make it believe as they wish.
As you suffer silently, they shred through the days fading strength, the night’s shallow resolve and the iron forts you made to keep the burning eyes out but also the vicious hounds in.
Soon their ripping and shredding give way and the lines begin to blur as chaos begins to flow.
The hounds claw at the eyes glaring aflame and the iron swords pierce the fur gleaming silver in the moonlight as the blood begins to run.
The crimson river streaming now the ochre soil layered and cover and layered over again until there’s silver and iron and scarlet but no umber to be seen.
But now the light begins to stream over the horizon, drying the blood, rebuilding the walls, reforging the iron, reigniting the glaring orbs and breathing life into the howling silver.
For it is morning now, the battle is lost, the blood has dried and it is now time to sharpen your blades for the war tonight, as the war rages every night.
As consciousness pours in through the rising blinds, as the polished armour is dawned again for today’s fight - the wolves are in their fortress the blazing eyes are in the tents.