Lone, Weary Warrior

Reverend Allyson Szabo

He stands alone, above the blood-soaked fields,

Dark eyes narrowed and smoldering.

His solitary form seems to fill the sky,

Yet is invisible to the weary wounded there.

He watches, silent and brooding,

As the dead are piled on the pyres

And the living are evaluated.

Black, cracked lips part, breath blowing out hard;

There are moments that even he doubts.

A child clings to its mother,

A mother long dead and mouldering.

He stares, examining his handiwork without comment.

Seeing him, one might think him soulless, heartless.

Sometimes, he wonders, too.

How can he continue, day by day,

Inflicting such horrors upon the world?

Because it is necessary, in the Grand Scheme.

But no one understands, even the other gods.

And they wonder, yes they do,

Why he goes to her perfumed bower

Where the iron stench of blood disappears.

They chuckle behind pale, unstained hands

As he sheds his crimson armor,

And bares his pale, untouched flesh to her.

Even she doesn’t understand,

But at least she sympathizes.

Her swan-soft skin, glowing like apples in the sun,

Trembles beneath his calloused fingers,

And he knows peace.

Briefly.

 

 

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