The Warrior
The old warrior sits
stooped
his weathered bone
bowed
Each scar
drawn tight
to knots
Pale brown eyes
Fixed
to pain
Each breath
he counts
the men of luck
Luck,
enough to give
in
Luck,
enough to know
not
Luck,
enough to die
first
He remembers
the young warrior
before the reckoning
before the turning
of tides
Aye, the grand compunction
His armor hangs, clanks
useless.
turned to tin
With heart and sword
asunder
to survive nothing
Exiled
to a battlement
beguiled
And alone he waits
and alone
