I have acquired messy handwriting
over the years,
so difficult to read,
to comprehend.
Similar to a code,
but definitely not as interesting.
I envy the wispy lines of ink on parchment
that can only belong
to a calligrapher.

On the brink of tears,
it's nearly here;
The end of it all,
it's in my palm;
Metal on my fingers,
I'll pull the trigger;
Will I go blissfully,
will anyone miss me?
Only time will tell,
so I bid you farewell;
Now is my time,
I will finally die.

Your knowing eyes,
they analyze;
Your curious mind,
ever blind;
Your vast intellect,
a grin of neglect;

You can see,
that may be;
You can spy,
but you will cry;
You can watch,
but you'll be a deathwatch;

You cannot be detective,
it takes the right perspective;
You cannot complete this task,
it would be too much to ask;
You cannot realize,
but you'd be traumatized;

You'd get quite a scare,
you couldn't bear;
It's quite a sight,
you'd get quite a fright;
Playing detective,
it's never fair;
Playing detective,
now that's rare.

Let us drink mead
before the army we lead!

Let us drink port
before we trample a field of lungwort!

Let us drink ale
before we hear the melody of the nightingale!

Let us drink,
soldiers,
to a battle we will win!

My body is ever present,
my voice speaking
a melancholic melody.

Yet, if I am here,
why do I feel a fog of nothingness
lick my feet?

Why is my throat
unable to produce any sound,
my lungs choking on oxygen
as I try to breathe?

How is my body alive,
but my eyes dead,
my soul stuck in an inevitable twilight,
a limbo?

Will I be found,
saved,
or sacrificed?

He wore the finest leather gloves,
held a hammer of steel,
sported dead eyes.
He had witnessed countless deaths,
far too many,
caused by the very weapons
he crafted blindly.

You place your blade
in flames,
letting them like your weapon
send white heat across the core.
Pressing it to your skin,
the steel burns a scar to your arm
as a symbol of victory
in the time of war.