Letters From The War: One Red Evening

Our war was different. There were no trenches dug
In bloody mud, no bombs, no barbed wire.
Alone, we'd wander the dirt roads to no avail,
Driven by distant sounds and a vauge sense
That we should continue.

One red evening we marched through a wrecked village
And for the first time in so long we found something.
There was a house - A tall wooden house
Alongside the battle field. Its windows were white and wide,
And its doors were open.

We stumbled in, exhausted and drawn to the light.
Fear mounting. Breaths uneven. Human contact,
For once, possible. But we encountered nothing.
The great hall was empty, marauded by the war.
There was only silence.

Upstairs, the light that from a far seemed God like
Was now thin and dim. Everything was illusory.
We stood at the window of the tallest peak
And stared into the red glare of dusk, alone.
There was only silence.

Looking out from the highest window,
I realized the whole world was looming
in the distance somewhere, unreachable to me,
That it would always appear to be out of reach.

We left the old empty house
and continued our wandering.
On again towards the war
That no one ever found.