a litany of ruminations

of beauty and brutality (perfect imperfection)

A/N: i should be doing homework...whoopsies...?

oh, he has stood on both sides of the battlefield,

remembered glory days, (of golden sunlight, beating down, of glinting silver of the calvary, the red, like flowers, blooming)

of the sharp eyes of a master tactician,

the smiles of young men, ravenous for the spoils of war

(so very i(gnorant)nnocent - ignorance, innocence, it matters not all the same- for they had not known what lay within the shadowed eyes of a veteran, leaving the conference room with scarce a sound)

of best-laid schemes of mice and machinations of men gone oft awry,

had seen the light of many days (such an ephemeral sojourn)

the darkness that had frequented (eclipsed) many a dusk, a shroud of suffocating shadow,

a state of melancholy that had far outstayed its welcome long ago, lingering like a constant sigh, dimming as the twilight threaded through the darkening sky-

(morose ruminations, gazing out to the city-so many lights had gone out, extinguished and never to burn as brightly as they once had, before)

(he closes his eyes, allows a (constant, uniform, military-issued) gloved palm to press upon tempered glass, as if reaching out to grasp at a world that had long forgotten him, like smoke-a dream he had thought once tangible, but now he reached for it, it dissipated into the polluted air, leaving nothing but the taste of ashes in his mouth and asphodels blooming-reaching towards (such a) light-polluted sky)

reminisces of dehumanization of the enemy, nostalgia tainted bitter--

every soldier is (was) human, once ha(s)d- has, had- past, present, time is nothing to the immortal man-

hopes beliefs flaws friends

dreams wishes memories comrades

family ideologies (they were a child like you, once)

corruption is not innate; no, he believes this cannot be so. what we believe and what we fight for, why we fight for what we do and your strength of will. morality and strength of character is a matter of a path fraught with sinkholes, ruts and obscured all the way, but it's a matter of small, little things, of trying, so hard, to do what is innately right.

to be virtuous is to learn from mistakes of the past, no matter how long it would take, take all in stride and keep marching on with a head held high.

(he can't say he isn't naïve when he muses that no man is truly irredeemable. is it, really? are there any too far gone for the light of reason to reach them? he doesn't want to believe it's true)

he can't say as much for himself. he harbors his regrets, shadows beneath seemingly serene waters, a constant weighted presence resting upon his shoulders, lurking in his footsteps, reflected in the mirror, creeping into his heart, a nearly tangible sensation of snowmelt trailing down his spine.

he stumbles and falls in clumsier a manner he thought possible, sometimes alone, but every so often, he gazes upward only to see a hand, extended, an offering of promise he accepts willingly--although with no small amount of hesitation.