War is a living, breathing thing. It trots along trenches, reveling in the carnage wrought. It barks and a hail of bullets rip down fifty men on either side. It walks further along the trench, into the woods, and spies two men in opposing uniforms dead on the ground. A flick of its tale and their dog tags are lost; these men won't be found for another eighty years. One is twenty-three. The other is only eighteen. MIA is just a polite way of saying dead but not found. It sniffs through tunnels and caverns, busily raking its claws across stone. Secrets bound here will lie buried for more than a century before coming to light. War points its maw of bayonet teeth skyward and howls, long and high-pitched--an atom bomb falls on Hiroshima. It is a terrible force to be reckoned with, but War can be kind. The children caress its fur and sleep through the bomb that steals their final breath. War levels the gun at a madman's head, but lets him pull the trigger.
For years, War has glutted itself on mankind's fickle nature. A feast was presented in Crusades, Revolutions, and World Wars. Now War has grown thin. It's coat is scraggly and unkempt. Razor sharp teeth have dulled with disuse, and its hooves have grown long. The once beautiful musculature is now weak and its bones have become frail. It snaps at the air, cracking its aged teeth, and Russia descends upon the Middle East. A war on terror is hardly a war at all. Fighting an emotion and a concept is simply a pointless endeavor: nobody wins, not even War. War was beautiful once, now only a shadow remains and its days of bringing glory are only known to history books.
