Monday, July 9, 2012

The Terrible.

Its legs arc like lightning into the ground as it moves. Not truly legs. Not truly lightning. It rounds a corner to find three soldiers who are fighting for some stupid and hopeless reason. With a single thought and a will far too powerful to ever need existence their flesh becomes nothing more than a sack to hold now-crumbled bones. Out in the street a tank opens fire and flames engulfs the angel, their licking tongues of hot metal and plasma slowing to a crawl and losing all purpose. They fire again. The terrible one becomes some kind of whirlwind and this burning munition loses its courage, then is spit back out, racing home. It explodes, illuminating every scratch and pockmark of the armor clad coffin in fiery glow. The never-fired third shot explodes before the loader closes the breach. The tank exhales one final breath of flame and destruction from its hatches and broken places. The burning and screaming soldier climbing out the top hatch is like a sputter of blood brought up by a sickening cough, the tank crushing inwards, as if this being had clenched a massive fist around it. 

So much power put to use for such violence. Waking, I wonder if power like this could ever be purposed differently and why I hadn't seen it so purposed instead. Did I set the tone of this dream into battle and horror and death? Is the evil in me and the destructive capabilities witnessed in that angelic terror or is it truly just decided by the victor's revisions? How can anyone say God was not always on the side of the victorious and still maintain a belief in God. It is truly their right to decide how things will be written and remembered.

I drift back to sleep, on to another battlefield. Horrible things are written and yet still unwritten there.

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