A Warrior's Prayer

The torture of the faithful is to wait, silent,
while those about her are slaughtered, forsaken
on the dank wintery ground, possessions removed,
even the swords of their fathers and the will of their sons.
These crimes confessed by scurrilous lot
who will beg death before comeuppance
and evoke, in vain, the mercy of their gods.


In my dreams I see the faces, stone-like and grey,
stinking of battle and contemptuous sweat
mocking my grace and feasting on spoils of a tilted battle.
But their words will soon halt with the vengeance
of the departed, let them recoil in the presence
of those who make no sound but instead cold revenge.


And in the end, my brothers, my father, my sisters
I will lay you down in the dark noiseless tomb
forced abandon is my sole guide now and
I leave my heart and scarred blade by your side;
stale air impaled with the grief of your kindred
clothed only in screams of naked anguish
until the fires take you to rest in the vast heavens.


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