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Greatest Loss
Lightning streaks forth through the sky,
blazing a path of fire in a sea of black.
Worlds of water falling down by and by,
crystal gems shatter and at the ground they do hack.
Howling winds moan like restless warriors in chorus,
lost on the bloody battlefields of yore.
Thunder crashes like a thousand swords clashing mimicking the Taurus,
moving to and fro through the hills and valleys resounding ever more.
The bluish-gray mask covers the heavens dutifully with fervent gloom,
blotting out all traces of light and magnifying the dark recesses of the mind.
The malay of warfare reeks of impending doom,
cavorting across the sky this majestic illusion of reality will soon leave this land behind.
The mask slips away revealing the candle light,
calling the pale warriors back to their home's shores.
Quiet ensues the land as the fires are swallowed from sight,
and the sweet gems sparkle never more.
In the tormentor's place arises nature anew,
saved by grace to shine forever forth.
Sweetly savored sensual aromas emanate from the aftermath renewed,
as a breeze caresses the watching figure softly from the north.
The silhouette stands watch over the desolate ruins like a sentry,
his thoughts like fleeting birds do leave and focus on reality.
Hopes and dreams were snuffed out at this place like a stray ember,
hope personified fought in vain and now he is left to remember.
His heart beats strong and fills with intense emotions of anguish and despair,
the flood rises and his body trembles as the waves crash upon his soul.
His cape of fiery blue flows in the wind as a gale tosses it about without a care,
it wrestles with an unseen foe portraying the battle that is raging taking it’s toll.
His long brown silky hair cascades down his head giving off a soft warm glow,
like a waterfall of chocolate dangling about his shoulders.
His eyes seem like endless muddy pools of life which stir ever so slow,
painful joy and ecstatic sorrow mix and meander with memories in their twin cauldron-like holders.
Tired arms hang appearing as if they would sway without a fight,
muscular and defined though drained of strength and power are nothing more than a frame.
A war weary hand grips the hilt of his blade like death does the fallen ever so tight,
once gentle and soft, but now having done it’s duty never the same.
Succumbing to the victor of the mental strife bowing to the endless passion and pain,
the waves breach the walls of the soul filling his lungs with potent air and he roars into the night.
Falling to his knees on the ashes of what once was all lost in vain,
sinking to the ground as tears pour stinging the cheeks and blinding his heart’s sight.
