Leviathan

When the next world war finished its fiery harangue, it stepped down from the streetcorner podium, broke the megaphone over its knee, and slunk home crying to its mommy. It found the getting home a bit tricky. None of the roads were the same. The maps needed updating and would remain obsolete. It never got a license, never needed one, even so all the cars looked like something you'd cut your arm on and the only planes were sticking out of the ground by their nose cones.

It was slow going for the world war, it could move faster than a Saturn V rocket but someone had to pick up the pom-poms for that. It ambled along, leaving fires where it went. The world war's home stood at the top of a hill near an ashen river, what was once the bullseye of an Euclidean grid. Inside its calls lobbed through the empty rooms and chambers. He said he loved me, the world war wept. She said she'd always stand beside me. But just look, I'm alone again. It's not fair.