war is the tip of our tongue

there are nobody to save us. we are already ghosts here, bearing the weight of memories, regrets, lost hopes and dreams. all the heroes have killed themselves, are killing themselves or have already been killed. the age before death is now a broken film reel — memories, across these hollow sockets, flickering; the bittersweetness of names still linger on rotten tongue, past laughters pelt onto trodden skulls like rain. the doom and gloom of happy days — the blind faith, bounded youth and the world, a war-field in disguise — flood these long spoiled lungs.

and we have all been fools, thinking war was the good against the evil, the light and the dark, the rights and the wrongs; if only reality is that simple.

the real battle begins as evil corrupts evil, light burns light, rights and wrongs forming allies to murder part of themselves instead of each other. that is the war — the fight without soldiers, men nor women — the children, devastatingly alone with no one to turn to, grapple for the wrong kind of attention, because any is better than none at all.

to define war is an offer of alias to the demons in us.

deaths have never been the worst of it; war is about hopes dreams and futures long shrivelled under blood and gore, trodden and rotten beyond the marrow of our bones.

the moment we declare war, we have already lost.

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