THE WARRIOR

The Warrior

Unshaven, in a dirty shirt,

Crumpled like his soul

He dragged himself out of bed

Tired and exhausted.

Disillusioned, his eyed red from unshed tears

From the torture of sleepless nights,

From wounded pride he no longer knew he held.

The fantasy crashed, the scaffold was torched.

Why had he listened to the lies he whispered into the night?

The phantasies painted by well-meaning pansies?

How did he allow hope to haunt the empty halls?

Treacherous laughter echoes from the marble columns of his empty heart

Making a fool of out him.

Yes, the joke was on him.

Finally, it was time to start dying.

The start shot to life had been a misfire.

Yes, he should care about the loss his family would mourn.

And he should care that he would destroy the lives of his loved ones

The very people who reduced the father to a child.

Surely he should feel guilty.

He listened into his conscience:

 The resounding silence a comfort to his dark plan.

The light at the end of the tunnel.

And then the call came.

Can you be here tomorrow at ten?

No- he would be busy.

He had the plan

He had the intent.

This one time he would finally, eternally be successful.

And when the clock struck ten-

Here he was- crumbled shirt, eyes blood shot, soul ripped open.

Granting another human being the ultimate honor:

He reached for the hand offered.

He took a breath.

And he battled on.

(BEL 3-28-12)

Dedicated to the unknown heroes who allow me to battle alongside with them