CONFESSION ZERO

War delivers something significant overlooked in our hurry, blindness of its reach leading demons to our bed. Our minds see too late the sacrificed in its jaws or upon its talons with “This war, this lie will echo,” stomping inside our heads. There’s not room for much else, shrapnel has invited itself in and eats our guilt with a shovel, burrowing to our center. Another soldier, a child, who believes himself impenetrable is taken to soil for our charade, cold and ashen now. Where is the anger for having been wed to this legion, for standing motionless as deceit commits so many? Where’s the indignation? What have we sacrificed to the ground? Do we believe we’ve ducked its swipe and come out unsoiled on the other side? Now, after we’ve learned, will we snuggle up to precious war and kiss its beneficiaries, too afraid to die? War bends for no one, save for utter defeat. These are the days of our significance, these we live, so grab the warring shovel and bury it of its damn...

The mouth of the good soldier, the stern jaw of the general, the small particles of human dust that move between them- better things than war to the rotten film of floating flesh. The bastard truth, in its last throes, had no teeth to gnaw at death to release its harrowed grip and deceit had honed its razors slicing truth to its mortal nub, veracity fell out the bloody center uncorking the gushing liquid now thickly oozing out of man. This that moves us and machine is what drives the engine of betrayal. It is not man. It is not beast. It is not breath. At birth we suckle its oily nipple until we desire it more than food, this, our liquid birth of machinery. It is with that in mind and nothing else that the stern jawed general let loose his guns. With precision, from years of training, he nailed his target, truth, between the eyes and it fell back calling out a futile "help," but rescue would not be forthcoming, it too had been felled. Death stands now before them bo...