There is a war within. It rages uncontrollably, casualties mounting.
A Cease-Fire is called at the behest of the needs of others.
An occasional, fragile peace is formed when--when God, Himself must be the only force at work.

Then, the Sniper's bullet pierces.

Does it begin with the direct piercing of the Heart? Does it begin with the night fears of the wounded being shown themselves as victims and laughed at by the Enemy? Does it begin with the fallen hope of a friend who sees the fear of the last, knowing second as the heart is shattered inside the eyes of one victim?
Helpless, this soldier must move on, having to leave the body, never to forget that look. That look of utter knowledge, spoken through the haunting terror of that blinding white stare.
There is no time to close the eyes gently with frozen hands for another soldier screams, "Move. Move. Move." also in terror.

The Lost move as one Soul within and around the bodies. How long can a given destiny be fought? Yet, they move on.

Is there no end? Is there hope when Hell rages, taking with it every remnant of whatever good there might be? Is there a hero left? Is there a God?

"Yes, please", another weary soldier pleads. "Yes, there is a God. Yes, Yes!" this soldier screams in horror at the very thought that there is not. And even he suffers the nightmare of the question. The question that almost seems a blur within his hollow screams for the answer.

And the Sniper strikes again.

"No", this soldier cries without sound.
"Oh, God, please? Please be?", he whispers as he slowly falls to the ground. His last breath, the question, now a prayer.


***

One battle lost.
And the war within still rages, uncontrollably, with the point-blank hopelessness of fear and loathing.

It's time, it's time to waken the Dead inside, the Numb, or the Pain will never stop.
The nightmare has to end.

There must be hope. Without it too much is lost and more battles will continue to elude any echo of victory. A path to freedom?

There is a path in sight. It is not easy to look at. It is overgrown with the weeds of despair and nearly impossible to penetrate. Yet...
the prayers have not gone unheard?

Somehow, some way, someone has heard. Be it God? Be it a kind, strong, daring Angel?

Yes, an Angel carrying miracles in her pocket, and a Scythe made of the sharpest edged endurance which she uses to cut down the overgrowth blocking the path to hope.

She sings, as she works...it is atonal and sweet at the same time. Yet, it, too, pierces.

It is aimed now, directly at the Sniper's bullet...Oh yes, he still lurks.

The Song pierces the bullet before it can reach it's destination. The exploding collision is wondrous to watch. The Sniper cannot escape and is sucked into the white heat of the whirling explosion...

And the evils wrought here are now covered with notes of the Angel's tenderness ... and glaring strength.

The Lost, at least are now remembered, as the Angel draws a crowd to this field of Atrocities. Together, they remember and ask for a gentle rain of tears to cover the dead.

Oh, this war is far from over, but one last prayer was heard. Or maybe more? Too late, yet welcome...

You, we are yet heros, as long as we can fear without despair. As long as a breath of courage is swallowed carefully, bitter as it may be as it enters our uneasy stomach...

With time, the bitter taste remains only upon our lips, enough to utter, then speak out and exclaim, "Enough!"

And then we must learn the Song and look forward, remember; but move. Move...with that
bittersweet courage on our lips.


The last prayer has yet to be utterred...




~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is a prose piece, I did not know quite where to post it as it is more of a prose-poem, perhaps, or simply prose, but I suppose there is a story here as well...but I
suppose as this is where I usually post, it should perhaps be left here, don't know...
thank you,

m.