Assignment Nine- Sam Clark

Against the earth wages the only true war. Other fights pause. Others pitch. Others stop. Others culminate into a collective bang, a giant whirlwind in which truth and falsehood disappear into the void, mating and unmating, fading in and out of view. Still others simmer, pulsating with the buildup of arms; a hushed whisper, a false start, a stalemate. Others remain primitive, the sting of an arrow, the feeling of a heavy stick, blunt and cold, whacked up against the side of an arm. Or leg. Or head. Others draw on emotion, a war for something, against something, on something. But true war turns the self upon the self, it is the final contradiction. Are we not one with the earth? Do we not eat and drink? Are we not eaten and drunk from? Shall we end our division and satisfy the self, situating it in cooperation with the earth once more. We have no choice. Join or die.

That’s some fineeeee prose. I should be a poet.