The hero’s spear is loosed upon the world;
his will, shot through an outstretched arm, extends,
assumes the air before the hand that hurled
intention towards its mark, the flesh that rends;
allows the mind, intruder, within; succumbs
to the influx of steel and desire; enables death
to part, like fire, the blood from lips; and numbs,
too soon, from loss of nothing more than breath.
His pulse rides high, as he upon the horse,
and crests; atop the hill, he turns around
and looks back down towards his goal, the corpse,
which, separated from him but by ground,
is warm, and still; within his shadow’s reach,
grows chill – its life seeps out, returns his will.
For now, nearby, waves crash against the beach,
but, one day, even they will slow, and still
The man descends; from death, withdraws his spear;
resumes the mount; and counts the dead with cheer.
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