the paved country road swells under the heavy footfalls of the weary warrior
it is the dawn of march and the roses will remember the blush of death no more.
no more that is due to the sullen rock which the freshly smeared crimson slumbers upon
no more that is due to the holy droplets hauntingly trailing their way home from the sky
like divine reprisal
the heavens cry the loss which will be remembered no more that is due.
no more that is due to the village folks strutting about
rejoicing the return of the weary warrior
and his dripping sword.
no more that is due to the chaste maiden weeping in the wet meadow
for her freedom is gained
and another one’s lost.
the weary warrior moves along the muddy path still
while the dripping drizzle heartens his tired soul
for he know that someone does weep for the life which has been forcibly and heartlessly taken that day
that warm day of april struck by lightning and thunder and fragile fury.
it is said that to slay a monster creates another
and to save a life a debt is repaid
for the cost of life
is a life still.
and yet the warrior moves along and does not weep
he’s coming home
and does not stop his heavy footfalls nor the beating of his erratic heart which has been yearning for it.
the fire will burn the remains of the day no more
but the fire was home too
the fire was life
and it has been extinguished.
the wary long-battled warrior is coming home through the cave and the meadow and the country path
for he has seen and lived it all and can never turn away from the scorching tear in his chest
and the village is his home no more.
the village is water and rain and it will not stop just like his tired steps
the whole world has sank away into the water
therefore the tired warrior does not return to the world
and instead he decides to return home.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC
the paved country road swells under the heavy footfalls of the weary warrior
it is the dawn of march and the roses will remember the blush of death no more.
no more that is due to the sullen rock which the freshly smeared crimson slumbers upon
no more that is due to the holy droplets hauntingly trailing their way home from the sky
like divine reprisal
the heavens cry the loss which will be remembered no more that is due.
no more that is due to the village folks strutting about
rejoicing the return of the weary warrior
and his dripping sword.
no more that is due to the chaste maiden weeping in the wet meadow
for her freedom is gained
and another one’s lost.
the weary warrior moves along the muddy path still
while the dripping drizzle heartens his tired soul
for he know that someone does weep for the life which has been forcibly and heartlessly taken that day
that warm day of april struck by lightning and thunder and fragile fury.
it is said that to slay a monster creates another
and to save a life a debt is repaid
for the cost of life
is a life still.
and yet the warrior moves along and does not weep
he’s coming home
and does not stop his heavy footfalls nor the beating of his erratic heart which has been yearning for it.
the fire will burn the remains of the day no more
but the fire was home too
the fire was life
and it has been extinguished.
the wary long-battled warrior is coming home through the cave and the meadow and the country path
for he has seen and lived it all and can never turn away from the scorching tear in his chest
and the village is his home no more.
the village is water and rain and it will not stop just like his tired steps
the whole world has sank away into the water
therefore the tired warrior does not return to the world
and instead he decides to return home.
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