All I sought to find was near and not far away,

A blind man turning stones only to find the hole below,

Need waits while our wants do sate,

And ever deeper does yawn the hole,

Been sitting too goddamn long. I can still see the look in the eyes of my loving and faithful wife on the day of my leave, expectancy and anticipation of the forever return of her man coming home to hang his uniform and forever sheath his sword. So many battles in so many places, so many faces but all without names and nameless they shall remain. Been sitting too damn long and I need to get up and I need to get the fuck out of here.

She waits, her dancing shoes on and her hair the way I like it. She waits in the gazebo I built with mine own two hands, the one where our children were married, surrounded by roses and adorned with a crown of ivy that turns blood red in the fall. Our children left long ago, and though I miss them dear, in consolation it brought me back to HER. Her of golden hair, of emerald eyes. Her of stubborn will, of mercurial wiles.

She waits, and in my dreams I approach, my uniform clean, my hair smelling of exotic fruits, their names unknown to me without matter. I take her hands in mine, I savor the moment, take in her scent, anticipate her taste. She is mine… again. But sadly, this is not to be.

He followed us. Somehow, he followed us. Three days it took, three days past since we left him and all but I thought he was dead. I never should have looked at him. I never should have bore witness. I could have saved him from the horror we sat upon his mantle. I stood over his motionless but all too living body and it was not mercy that stayed my hand nor was it cruelty. No, it was shame incarnate. An old man unable to control the lusts of his men, their zeal through every horrible act palpable, as if some great evil that feeds on hurt and sorrow possessed my men to ravage a man and his wife and his land. I would rise a man, a proud man. I would stand and don my sword and point it toward home and follow its hone until my beloved’s face could ply it from my weary hand with a welcome smile. I would stand, but the ones that took my legs have not gone far and Heaven knows that winter is long and surely a belly needs filling! As the sun waves its final goodbye and night arrives to sit sentry over the now silent chorus of death below, the only cries to be heard this night howl from mine own rictus grin, for I am the only one left, and the irony goes not unnoticed even as I stare dully at mine own sad chewed remains. I know this to be tributary in his river of vengeance.

And all the while, that cloaked slumping figure watches from afar, its black companion drifting here and there, and he knows that I can see him. All around me, the ripping and the tearing and the cries of babes coming from the bleeding bodies of men and that black fucking hole in place of his face stays staring, waiting for me to be the last. Waiting for what? I did nothing wrong. I’m an old man and this was to be my final trial and I could not have stopped it if I tried, for this is what the endless march of war does to men can they not see it? Have mercy!

No, not today. Not tonight. Not ever. For the black hole ensconced in cloak standing and staring before me was shown none the same. And I left him there, all alone, to the same fate as which mine own ruined body now sits, kept alive if for no other reason than this final moment of horridly absolute comedy. The animals have receded, the trees have stopped their ravenous sway, the black hole is growing, all is better this way.