Over leather boiled and mail oiled,
Rooted I stand with sword gleaming.
Eyes squinted, tuned for battle,
Scanning, searching for demons teaming.
As I wait at ready my arms grow heavy,
The foes revealed are not but shadows,
And damsels ephemeral, undeserving.
The ponderance of my armor grows.
The romance of conquests fairly won,
Not met with heralds but jesters’ japes,
The rose I sought in flowering youth,
Illusory as a woodblock’s ‘scapes.
So do I dare put down my sword,
And hang my shield on brothel wall?
Or stay Spartan until forgotten horn sounds the penultimate warrior’s call?
Written Dec 14, 2011
I feel like I should say something intelligent about this but really just wanted to say how much I like it.