by Christian Theodossy

Tomorrow, tomorrow.

Why always tomorrow?

Why do I leave affairs until the razor’s edge?

Instead of being the razor and cutting through my work?

Why do I procrastinate so?

Why can’t I just get it all done?

I ask as I write a poem when I should be doing homework.

by Christian Theodossy

The men had been fighting for years, eons. No one, not a soul, not even the old generals commanding young soldiers to their deaths could remember why it had started. But still they fought. They fought day and night, not even stopping to remove the bodies of nameless men. It was no “civilized” war like people fought in old times. There were no ranks of soldiers lined up to open fire and mow down the opposing lines, but instead a confused, angry, terrified mass of human beings fighting, tearing each other apart, gouging and ripping and biting and cutting. And the demon of war stood above on a hill, looking down on the great war he had begun.

“This is good,” he said.

“The men fight. They suffer. They die. And for no other reason than because they do.”

The fighting went on for centuries, children being trained to fight at an early age and sent off to battle when they were ready. The sides were evenly matched, no side ever gaining ground on the other. They simply fought on a scorched field covered in packed dirt and blood from hundreds of thousands of restless feet pounding the ground. The people were beyond hope that the war would ever end, so it became their way of life. Continue reading →