(this is just a bit of experimental, spontanious writing. Lemme know what you think)

The sun sets over the side of a desolate building. Soon the sky will be cast with blood red. But that's okay; it will match the ground. A single soldier leans against a wall, smoking a cigarette that could very well be his last. His rifle rests in his lap, the weigh of a fresh magazine seemed to make it too heavy to hold in his hands. Looking at its black frame, he couldn't help but thinks about the darkness that this weapon had send so many people too. It was, after all, nothing more than a hunk of metal; a colaboration of springs and pins that did nothing more than throw a small piece of metal fast enough to penetrate a person. The design was so simple, yet the results were much too complex.

Distant gunfire reverberated through the air; modern war-drums beating out thier rythem of death. the sky was thick with smoke, and the light from the setting sun was swallowed by it. If the sky became any redder, it would start to bleed. A warm breeze blew dust into the air. It smelled like blood and cordite. Brass of all sizes lay forgotten in the dirt, glistening in the dying light like jewelry of the damned. Each shell was a story of a life gone, a source of destruction-everlasting.

As the lone soldier looked around to the buildings surrounding him, he thought about what this place might have looked like before. These were homes. People had once lived here. Now they stood empty, testaments of destruction written on thier walls in the form of bullet holes and occasion blood stains.

But this battlefield was a hallowed place. It was not just the setting of the play that was human ignorance. It was not just a place of death and misery, of lives lost and dreams gone with them. It was a place where men and women had stood thier ground and died for what they had believed was right. They had paid the ultimate sacrifice here, given it all away. They left behind families, plans, dreams; all in the name for belief. Whether that belief was of God, freedom, culture, or whatever, none of that matter. All that was important was that it was a belief, and it was held dearly enough to die for.

Whoever said war was an ugly things knows nothing. While the reason and need for war is a stain on humanity, war itself; the act of battle; is glorious and beautiful thing. It is in battle where the raw of the human soul is bared, where men abandon thier upbringings and faiths to commit acts in the name of protecting the very things they gave up. In battle, no one is right, and no one is wrong, because when it comes right down to it, they all fight for the same things.

The lone soldier tossed aside his spend cigarette and wearily picked up his rifle. He had a beautiful wife and three children at home. Every bullet that ripped from his rifle was for them. There was future in his life, but every second was a test as to how long that future would last. Somewhere out there, hidden beneath its brass coating and magazine casing, was a bullet that was meant for him. Perhaps the man that pulled the trigger also has a wife and three children to feed.

The lone soldier stood up and turned the corner to join his platoon. When that bullet came for him, he would be there to greet it. After all, when you really think about it, they were all on the same side anyways.

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