The Truth Behind War’s Mask

Before Dawn

In the hours before dawn,

When imagination gives birth to the greatest of ideas,

An image is born to the writer.

Trees.

Hundreds of trees, standing like blackened matches,

Still darkened by the last of night’s shadows.

Mists so thick that every breath is felt

Rise from the forest floor to meet the sun’s first rays.

Visions fall like memories of an ancient time.

The silence of my picturesque scene is broken

By the sound of hoofbeats in the distance.

A thickset white stallion appears,

Bulging eyes poking through a yellow faceplate,

Nostrils spewing clouds of effort

As it toils under the weight of rider and armor.

Following their young master,

Foot soldiers emerge from shadows,

Beating makeshift weapons against shoddy shields,

Reveling in what it means to be masculine,

Rejoicing in the call to battle.

As light exposes natural colors and textures,

So too does it expose the reality of war.

Moments ago, tense excitement echoed through the forest;

Now, screams of agony from grotesque mutilations,

And grunts of desperation from those avoiding

Becoming one of the ones screaming.

What the hell is going on?

What happened to boyhood games of war they played?

One crossed swords—

The better swordsman thrust his blade under the arm of his opponent,

Opponent dies.

Simple, easy, romantic.

That is war, isn’t it?