Notes of war,

thoughts that from the darkened front, of waxy flashes and congealed blood, escape death and recreate old enmities and chains of inhuman figures.

war be it. A word a bullet. Not the same. War be it, pacifists ousted from the curve of time and irredeemed foretasting the joy of the righteous.

there is no justice, but cocoons of sentient larvae. There is no logic, in the smoke spirals and deaths of the ordinary consumption of bistro narrators.

war be it, for war it must be. Soothe the spirits of the righteous and bury scattered consciences of the short century.