Battle Wounds
Your eyes dared gaze, transfixed, upon myself
Where many injuries I did play host to,
Correct, my love, I was wounded in glorious battle,
Battle with vicious enemies that showed no mercy,
That killed for no reason less than killing,
Kill, kill, kill, that’s all I’m meant to do,
God put me on the earth to remove others from her,
By the helm of my sword I take them away
To a quiet place where none disturb,
And they would do the same for me,
If ever a chance they had – but no!
They never have a chance to take me from the chain,
For I am strong – stronger than all imagine,
I am Beowulf, strong and boastful,
I scream out war cries
As I rush the bloody, muddy grounds.
I am Hector, commanding an army so great
That Troy could never fall while then I fight,
I am Achilles, showing no weakness,
For me, not even the heel of bitter downfall.
You ask, why is there blood upon my face?
Nay, not mine own, but of my enemies,
My sword brought out the final red,
The red that they saw last before they slept,
But never did a sword not of mine own
Sneak across my face and leave its mark
To remind that I am still mortal.
I must rest now; my energy is spent,
The darkness comes to welcome me to sleep.
What’s that, my love? Some blood flows new?
You must be mad. This blood is hours old!
You seem to think I’m dying, I must dress my wounds.
NO! I have no wounds! ‘Tis enemies’ blood!
I feel no pain, there is no slash, no cut, incision,
But yet she remains in defiance,
And I in denial, she says?! For if now I sleep,
Then on the ‘morrow shall I not wake?
She knows nothing of battle, of wounds,
Of pride, of honour. I sleep, deep sleep,
I hear her voice inside my aching mind,
“You shall not wake.”