As I was driving over the mountain, between the great metropolitan cities of Charlottesville and Waynesboro, my thoughts were on many things. When my mind gets clouded, I do my usual subroutine and assign less delicate tasks to my other compartments which seem more than happen to comply. I focused my attention on a poem taking shape which will more than likely be called Surrender. I am not looking to surrender anything in the course of the poem. My thoughts focused on my desire to force others to submit to my will. They must surrender; while I hoist my black flag of the wild brigand.
I am wondering why my thoughts are centering on making anyone surrender anything. In war, no one really wins. There’s is always a loser. Whenever there is a loser; the winner never achieves victory. The true victor in a rational world is not one, but two. In war, the true victors are the ones who surrender to each other. They both know the futility of war by the death and destruction that follows the moment a single soul is ripped from a body; or building created by woman is burned to the ground. Surrender is the only viable option; even if only one party surrenders. They have the moral victory at that point. They will have all their lives, all their buildings, all their ideas, all their minds; they can subvert the victors, if the victors are too stupid not to surrender as well.
By the time I got to my destination, I was pretty much done with this. I know I will never raise a white flag. My flag will always be black. A wild, ferocious black flag. However, it will be a black flag streaming into the wind into a calm and blissful open sea. While I may be a brigand at heart, it is not my right or choice to do what my nation does to those of lesser stature; however, I will be noticeably absent when it is time to divvy up the spoils of war for I will have none. The only spoils of war I will have are neighbors, peaceful and contented, watching my back, while I watch theirs.