The battlefield is littered with fallen corpses, as the dew settles before the morning sun.
To the rotting army of flesh, victory is none.
Champions prevail, when copious amounts of blood are splattered on the barren knolls of retreating enemy lines.
The dead are merely pawns for the advancing vulture’s games of chess.
The wounded are paraded, as if in Valhalla, for a job well done, and generals seek the glory for a conquest won.
War is politics in motion, where diplomacy is achieved on the razor end of a sword.
This is civilization at its best – where men, through heroic feats, become gods and trembling cowards seek eternal unrest.
Burnt Bridge 