The weapons were lined out for us to choose.
A gun. A mace. A sword. A dagger.
We were supposed to set out to war.
Because the ones who left before us never returned.
Our hellish demons of sorts.
And we had to be wherever they were fated to be.
Because once we had a dream.
Trudging thought miles of ancient wood.
Smothered green in lichens and warm showers.
We were right behind us.
Garbed in black uniforms.
An array of weapons we did not choose hung by a belt.
A bleeding gash or two.
Pronounced limps and breathless lungs.
Walking fast in pursuit, calling after someone.