War is Hell

What is left of a warrior after war, when all the the dust has settled and the bodies have been collected?

A desolate landscape awaits most. Some find nothing beyond the blade, beyond the screams of battle. Some are torn between now and then, like the tortures of lost love. Falling ill to shadows and the coldness of the mind.

Fort Warden, WA
Shallow motions of empty thought carry along side many. Searching for meaning beyond the whims of instinct. Beyond the ideal skill of a predator. Too many become lost with no hope but the kiss of death. Whispering to the hateful wishes of demons. As they lie with terrible eyes, leading the lost to the end of a rope or the piercing of flesh.

There is no safe passage for a warrior after war. Hell they have crossed and hell they must traverse. Numbness masks their souls as they find their way. Will they survive is all left to the warrior. And survival is what they know, but many know not the horrors that await them alone.  Many do not lose what they were taught. Battle is their way, battle it must be. The fires rage on all sides as the bridge to life burns. Dark clouds shadow hope, shadow love, shadow the existence of any soul.

Many still hear the raging of the drums, the drums of battle. The rhythm of the fight. For that is who they are. The beating of their heart in hell. Finding dependence upon chaos. Chaos that bleeds sanity dry, but how does one sort such hell from their soul? Or is there nothing left to save when one is faced with the open mouth of hell?

Hell breathes unwieldy and warriors are left to taste, too smell, its putrid breath. Breath that rots life that goes against it. And those who survive, are not left without the horrors of hell. They are not left without the anguish of the dead, of the lost, of the innocent. War leaves no soul unscathed. No warrior finds themselves whole. None find their way through wars cruel nature with the mind they entered with.

Images spread like wild fires, imprinted, scarred, welded to the minds of the warrior. Warriors scream, eyes wide, heart racing, sweat pouring, nightmares lingering like a foul taste upon the throat. Lost in a battle that is no more. Illusions of war peer between the lulls of the day. Leaving the warrior with obsessive eyes. Waiting, watching, gone from reality.

The sounds of war echo in the tunnels of the heart, ripping sanity apart. Vivid are the echoes, beyond the visions of thought. The loss of others weigh heavy upon warriors. Nothing is left behind, all is changed, all is chaos. Comprehension, whether battle be sanctioned for good or false pretenses. Comprehension of battle is never found. But purpose of life can be.

What is left of a warrior after war?

(There are struggles for those who have faced the horrors of war that they must go through. If you know anyone who has seen the pains of war. Reach out to them, don't ask them to speak about it. But tell them you care about them, tell them they can be more than what they are now, that they have more to give.)

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