No One Knows Where The Day Shall Lead Them; Willingly Or Without Intentions — Morning Papers XIII

By Wise Days, To Aching Suits — Divided Through Awful Moments, To A Contrast Somewhere In Between; Wherein, Such Truth May Always Lay — as we do — Somewhere in Between the Lines, We might so Be.

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It’s a queer mystery, especially for the queer-footed. No one knows where they will arrive, once the birthing cords have been cut and sewn dearly in the belly — where could this all lead? Such is love, the expectations could be thrown endlessly, but would they ever land?; A mother could dearly adore her child, and give them clothes, a shop, and a whole assortment of things, but where will they land on the first true steps outside the foundling’s nest? Where could that hope to dare them, or turn them into a shallow grave with no intent — where could this leap throw them, if they intern themselves to the exact callings peddled upon them like the Blue and Red patriot’s soldier could be lauded and beseeched ever higher, or be forgotten, after which the lurking streets are all that shall ever house their heights — Or a muddy trench is the hellbent funeral, for such a sudden thing, snapped to their tidy remains. I wonder I wonder — when I catch a glimpse of a newborn babe; of a spotless child, where they will go. I don’t know the wealth of the ground they were nurtured in; whether or not the starting base was lacking in any genuine regard. The soldier is my concern — always my concern, much too much you may guess. Knowing all the childish rage bitten out of them by the hashing of gunfire, the stripping of responsibility for the self, and all for what falls under the satin banner; all of it gone, for what? So the older ones who engaged in such warfare can again and again never doubt themselves to stop the warring blood. Such sanguine acts, I wondered could ever queerly blunder itself in, but sure, it does, they always do, but some know the matriarch of starkness to repress it. The boys that heave up their own lungs for the primed gas attack, know nothing of life — barely one in a million of them have known life, and even if age is no indicator of experience, most haven’t, I charge. Barely any of them are real to themselves yet, on the pillars of what they could lose. Most are virgins, and nowadays, the boys aren’t alone in their slaughter, I can’t prattle on the girls to join, for it is still the same — a child dies under oath; but that is the cheapening effect of warfare, long construed out of the meaningful battle, and long into the stark night, where one dare not touch themselves where it would really sting, like a dagger, pierced into you by your dearest friend, for the spite of your actions you have done in your life long-lived, now passing you.

Some days I suppose, one gets very cheapened by all these grand ideas, in the totaling hole they despise upon yourself. Why this thus, and why for such thusness, but we must. This rule of the savage ape has barely ripened for the tenderness of aging.

All admitted in jest, for an ape, an animal, a hog, a bleeding hound — The savagery of nature’s indifference leads a man into clean despair, to mark it all starkly, and march until nothing else could care in his mind.

Perhaps someday to some of them, they’ll realize that we are all the things that will ever care about us; we’ve only got ourselves to do so — we do so with utter blame, don’t we, a burden evolving unto utter blading knives rest upon delicate edges.

Is my concern too much — I watch the star-studded, riveted nude-aluminian aeroplanes throughout their longed history, and what remains to be seen in the relation between the halted man, and the grounded aircraft. In the times due of the biplane to the pitching of life done by the speeded jetfighter of vanishing gunslingers and approaching missile-beholders.

I wonder about that — should I let the children play, let them have their time and fun in the sand before the meddling comes? I wonder about that, all that effort beforehand to gain the knowledge that a child, barely with a blemish on their hide, has erupted into the grave, or rather an already-made coffin, of tin and fiberglass, by the crashing and now useless plane. By tomorrow, shall be defunct in its prime act of patrolling with skin aboard.

All the instruments therein cannot steer them to an allotted heaven if one’s faith is so staring; Yet it does propel man unto his useful burden of meaning, done so by Country, Crown, and Stiped-Nationhood’s ablaze. Most that die under fire never have even been close to a battle, and most don’t remain long by it either. ’Tis the Whittler’s game.

All our greatest media is intertwined within the great profits of war — all your foods and medicines propelled forth in propensity that would stretch them into utter brilliant terms, most likely indebted to the bode’s traveling bosom of warfare. Are we there? Somewhere in-between the lines, are we that? To create we must destroy, and to destroy we must create. To destroy in our ritual and sometimes idiotic ways of what became before us, to gibbet and fashion it into the seemingly new. When man encases himself into the flying iron suit, I will rest my case; For he who cannot be succumbed to being a jolly-good fellow after he leaves that wilderness so true to his core nature, is dead to me, to know him any further. I am, I am to that — he’ll cast, and that’ll be all in his casefile thereafter. So closed in now, art we? Especially if American hopes now, cannot even face themselves to seek out the truth, still they push their luck in hoping upon words, and never any firm actions. But where could such lines lead us to now — await that, await it. Beady fine lightening eyes!

Perhaps the embrace of warfare, in all manners of our beguiling natures, is true and best to our originality. But a day so gray, I’ve grown weary and would much rather detest all their fond, havoc games.

Ta-ta now, till the next, where the airs have arighted themselves for something more hopeful; but so is this all, you see, so is this all; hope spares his arm for war, till the next repeated disaster. Hope is too much to resist; it’s always there.

Woe or blessing, War, it is somewhere between the lines is where you shall find thee.

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