The figure, old and decrepit,

lies in a silent tomb of regret,

he ponders his life and where

it has betray him with longing stare,

he slowly rocks to-and-fro

and yet he longs for one love so,

that he cries himself to sleep at night,

seeking some sort of holy plight

to fill his violent life with but one light.

-

he wishes for dreams sweet,

but his requests betray him,

he remembers bloodstained sand at his feet,

and the point at which men’s screams sustained him.

He remembers a thirst for death,

an unquenchable bloodlust.

-

He remembers bodies

covered in entrails and dust,

He sits and thinks though,

of only one retained image,

the figure of a child,

it was a haunting vision.

-

a stray round caught a woman’s throat,

her child covered in the blood that spared her coat,

He remembered this child,

that had watched his mother die,

a boy no more than fifteen,

didn’t so much as flinch or cry.

-

But what held him still,

because death was dealt before,

was the look in the boy’s eyes.

-

This look was hatred for everything that lived

because this woman had not,

this was his terrible decision,

causing awfulness and derision.

-

Within all men with emotion,

when anger’s strength is that of the oceans,

this warrior to-be, a devil’s scorn,

now has nothing, baptized in blood,

the man remembers his son, his brood,

as he was warborn.