PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I

The soldier sits down slowly on the cold ground
as the sun shines its last long rays
on the quiet battlefield.
The moans of the dying have been stilled,
replaced by the shrill caws of the hungry crows.

He draws his nicked and bloody sword
and lays it softly on the grass before his crossed legs.
Carefully, he cleans the gore from the blade.
Taking his whetstone, he worries the nicks until they are smooth
and restores the keen edge along the length of his weapon.

Tomorrow, he knows, the city will fall
and the riches of the townsfolk
will be sweet plunder for him
and his glorious comrades-in-arms.

He will take respite from his grim toil
and enjoy the fruits of his hard-fought victory
as only the conquering warrior can
after his long and bitter campaign.
His gaze wanders to the fires of war
flaring and dying down around him.

He sees in the shifting flames a quiet chamber
with the curtains open to the morning,
where a kindly gentleman leafs through a weighty tome.
Behind him, a handsome woman stands,
sharing a quiet moment with her lover.

He reaches for her hand, and rises.
They go to the window, and plan their peaceful day
together in the warm sun.

The soldier looks up from the flames, 
and casts his eyes slowly
over the carnage he has wrought.
He closes his bloodied hands over his face
and weeps hot, silent tears.

II

The scholar strokes his long beard
as he ponders the yellowing manuscript.
The lore and wisdom of the ancients are at his fingertips.
Tales of valorous crusades
waged by fearless warriors of yore
crafting their own destiny.

Down the dark hall, a soft and caring voice
calls him to bed.
He reaches for the snuffer to kill the flame
on its long thin candle.
Before the snuffer can fall,
he sees the shadows flicker on the wall.

A fearsome figure riding fast
fleetingly by flame is cast.
Warrior wandering on the plain,
in one hand his feathered spear,
in the other his horse's mane,
without shame and without fear,
beholden to none
but the wind and the sun.

The scholar sighs, lets his glance roam
over the ordered reams of books
and the letters he has traded
with his counterparts in towers of ivory,
yet seeing only himself in any other life.

III

We spend our lives 
building our joys
gathering love.
Yet we are tempted
by wispy dreams
and what-ifs of the heart.

Regret is the monster
who eats us from within.