The mist vanishes away from the swamp, which runs red with blood and reeks of death and rot. Bodies and guns are strewn about, it looks like a splattered ball of vomit. And I sit, on upturned, scorched trees, wondering why, it had to end like this. War is the plague, that diseases us all. Making us do things, that we would not normally do at all. However, the world has gone numb, in the wake of all of the pointless bloodshed. Numb to the point, to where no one cares if their friends turn up dead. The mist has left, a wake of mass destruction, death and emptiness. Now I wish, the mist didn’t retreat so hastily. Why bother to carry on? for the ones I loved and that I have befriended, are all gone. Leaving empty and depressed on the inside, why bother to care? As I run through the killing fields, searching for a prayer, I stumble upon something revolting. For I have the affect of this whole wake of death, It’s a blood stained handgun, with one bullet in the casing. War is the plague, that diseases us all. Making us do things that we would not normally do at all. However, the world has gone numb, in the wake of all of the pointless bloodshed. Numb to the point, to where no one cares if their friends turn up dead. By the gun, is not a pleasant letter. for the last bits of it state something gruesome. I gently pick it up and I begin to ponder. "...Life planned out before my birth, nothing could I say. Had no chance to see myself, molded day by day. Looking back I realize, nothing could I’ve done. Left to die with only friend... ...alone I clinch my gun." The gun is loaded. With everyone that I loved is gone, with everyone dead, there is no reason to carry on. However I drop the gun, and I rush over to a body. Her wavy brown covers her face like a veil, ooooh, a girl of mystery. I brush her hair away from her face, and I marvel at her beauty. Why should something this beautiful be in a marsh of death? This is one giant mystery She was the thing of elegance and grace. A fallen angel, or a rose in a field of thorns. I gave her a proper burial. War is the plague, that diseases us all. Making us do things that we would not normally do at all. However, the world has gone numb, in the wake of all of the pointless bloodshed. Numb to the point, to where no one cares if their friends turn up dead. My mind keeps wandering, back to that letter. And now I realize, the letter belonged to her July 4, 2009