Author's Notes

I just felt like writing BlackWarGreymon for some reason. This spans basically his entire lifespan, beneath that fighting exterior we see.

Enjoy, and tell me what you think.

Pavement to Home

Everyone has a reason for living, and everyone has that moment where they're caught between black and white. It's just a little different to some.


Greyscale, that's how it all began.
Asphalt beneath my feet.
Tiny grains building a larger structure,
Little individuals; alone inconsequence.

How many feet walk on them per day?
Tens, hundreds, thousands beyond measure?
Mine alone are but one in such a horde,
A little grain simply contributing to a bigger whole.

It's so easy to become lost in such a world
As the shadows veil my pages while words write.
Minute grains that define no individual but all.
Within that: lost, drowned in sea of monochrome.

Drifting, living, existing but with purpose not.
Within the shadows which made me and govern thereof.
What path I tread I was blind to it, yet in search;
Walking forward, from grey to blackā€¦or white.

A little flower bloomed; a light in the sea of black.
For a moment, I simply stared.
It beckoned to me, singing merrily and shining bright.
Too bright, too sudden. Premature; it burns.

It crumbled beneath a foot,
Little grey speck like all the rest.
For a moment, it had flourished with a burst of colour
Before succumbing into the foundations of the world.

I had driven it there, but what difference had it made?
One more or one less in such a world?
A place so vast, so empty, so devoid;
A single question is all my boon, unanswered.

Where was my purpose? My meaning?
Where was my place in this world?
I searched for something to fill the void
Of grey, to shade its face.

Still, I searched, ill content, to fill
That hole within my heart.
All I sought gave answers not
Except what could, those little bursts of light.

From ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
The world endures, rotating through.
What purpose brings death and its cyclic rebirth
Save beyond, no meaning found.

I turned all I touched to that grey monotone,
With the knowledge I would one day lie there myself.
My fire stilled. My body crumbled,
And in the end, there I lay. Greyed.

Upon that same pavement I had walked upon and made
I cast aside my destructive ways
They brought me little comfort, and at last
The path beyond shone a dim light.

I spent little time on that new path
Once at last, I took that first step.
I felt the asphalt beneath my feet, well worn
But leading ultimately, steadily, rapidly, home.

A little grain, more importance perhaps than it had seemed.
Not below, to be trampled, supported, ignored and forgotten
But above, in the sky, to be remembered and mourned
Because there is no inconsequence, after all.

The flower in bloom, the eyes that saw
Had shone steadfast within the dull blanket of grey.
In the end, the blind path curved
Away from useless struggle to the meaning long sought.