Once a soldier, always a soldier, the warrior intonations deep and resplendent, irreverent and seditious, even when they probably shouldn’t be. He watched as more joined the ranks, and he stepped closer, reading the drawn lines, the scattered writing, the listing and adherence of a maligned state. For what cause? he wanted to roar, wanted to howl, wanted to blister, once a part of so many callous crusades, gone to ash, gone to dust, gone to wither in their small, meager accomplishments. Young men died while old men lied. He probably had too – a ghost amidst his friends on those battlefields.
He scrawled his print, neat and fine, practiced and perfected hundreds of other times; his mother wouldn’t have allowed an ignorant son.
Deimos Ignatius, 25, Destined.
He blinked at his father’s name hastened to his; and then at the final one. Destined. Destined for what? Destined to be forsaken? Did a single word change make it believable? Make it right? Make it just?
He scrawled his print, neat and fine, practiced and perfected hundreds of other times; his mother wouldn’t have allowed an ignorant son.
Deimos Ignatius, 25, Destined.
He blinked at his father’s name hastened to his; and then at the final one. Destined. Destined for what? Destined to be forsaken? Did a single word change make it believable? Make it right? Make it just?
