The Winds of War

The winds of war blow in a dream. I feel them like the chill breath of the banshee screaming down my neck. It comes from behind, where we are not looking. Not straying. Not being vigilant. And then it is upon us. War raises its hideous head upon the realm. And we say; Where did that come from? And why? And how? What did we do to deserve this? We, the innocent?

And then we succumb. It has us. No, it eats us. No, it consumes us. Slurp! And we’re gone. Part of the wind. Poof! Another breath of fear and self-preservation in the hurricane. Well, we all have that in common.

We marvel at its grandeur and vainglory, having been enticed by its spell. We looked into the abyss and were entranced. Now we are preparing to worship the great goddess of war and her consort, Death. In our nightmare we think that every shadow and every reflection in every mirror is an enemy. They are us, though in our dreams we would destroy them.

Would that we would wake up.