The Battle

A crack of thunder. The patter of rain. Light filled the area. Blood pooled in your own hands. Spear of your enemy in your lung, wherever your lung is now. You can feel these seconds drift by like hours. In the light you see your general, his blade in hand, standing tall above his mound of slain men. He may have lost his army but he won this day, this fight, this war. But you can hear his cries, his screams as the light fades and his blood drains away from him. 
Yes, he has won his war, his last war, his war with himself. His old scars fade into new wounds, his old worries into new terror, his old life into death. This war has changed him in all ways. The light is gone now, the beat of the rain dies out. It is cold but you feel warm. The embrace of death and all her children. Sleep now child, your day has come.
Category:Reality
Category:Micropasta