My Song

My song has not yet been sung for it has yet to be written.

There is work to do and lives to avenge before I am allowed to move on. Too young to fight, but not to young to forget, and not yet mature enough to forgive. Until such time I shall linger here waiting for a chance to join my family in the hereafter.

The war is far from over, externally we capitulate, internally the struggle goes on, down deep, in the bowels of our world. We learn to silently rebel, physically we cannot ever win. But we perform like a virus, a bacterial bug that infest from within, slowly rotting away the flesh of deceit.

Much like they did.

The best part is they are unaware of what we do, as we nibble on our host while they blindly believe we are the nourishment that sustains them. A whisper here, a suggestion there, always their idea, never ours.

Or so they think.

We wave their flag while fanning the flames of turmoil. Everyday they crumble, slowly, but surely. When they implode, which they most certainly will, we shall wash away every memory of their existence from our lives. Their false pride and foolish following of fools will finally be finished. They will be left wandering about as if waking from a nightmare, stumbling around without sight for they failed to see for themselves the truth that was always in front of their faces. Forced to suddenly live from the surreal to reality.

We will re-create our history, reinvent our lives, rebuild what was torn down.

Once they fall, do we pick them up, dust them off and embrace them as the friends they once were? Will we become petty and prideful unwilling to forgive and forget?

Until we find an answer to this question our song will never be heard, never sung, for it will not have been written.

This is why I weep.

Thank you,

Jason

Please do not read to much into this, it is no more than a reflective moment on a rainy Saturday morning. A rambling blend of words woven together creating a tapestry of thoughts in my head upon waking.