WRITING & REALITY?: Battleworn

The war is being fought on many fronts, the skies are lit on all the points of compasses in every language. Eternally, the past runs concurrent with the future, and the present is a spontaneous combustion spark that feeds itself into a bonfire–though it doesn’t last as long. Wails are ails in any tongue and all the same. Except perhaps if they do indeed exist on the rocklike surface of the moon. I would suspect its craters catch the earth cries to echo them long and lonely back into a universal blackness. What is here is there as well, and what I am, I was and that I am forever still. Time will make one groan in deeper tones, but somewhere from the fields, the high, thin cry of a child will hit the moon.