We got plenty of questions to talk about now, but we have time and there is space to turn around.
Laughing might deaden us from the pain of being only men. Dispassion collared me in the woods of the Black Stone valley. Too much years spoils the glory, spreading muck on every battle won and something even darker between us.
A mouthful of crooked hearts; this rotten king, with an aunt for a mother, is chewing our last pounds of brotherhood. Is it so hard to hide from a bunch of weredogs ? Your blood relations stupidity has melt down all the tiny links that allowed us to live together. And now we are on this endless road to home…nowhere is where the heartless are.
“A wild boar has no fingers, degenerate bastard! Who, when, how…what is that?” That fateful day. It was the first time they cooked one of us, natural transition for mass killing professionals surrounded by fresh bodies. If only we did not use all the chemicals to fill the void…between massacres. Next time.
To paint a picture of us would not bring me joy and some puny kids will use this during decades to protest against war.
Could be my son. “The spitting image of his father” will say the ones who know about his mother’s bad habits. A bunch of cowards and a betrayed mad man.
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