Battles

Battles

Here sits the Warrior, hands at rest, as if on the hilt of his sword, residing now within its burnished scabbard.

His hearth logs now dowsed, embers smouldering inconsequentially, no longer warming flesh nor soul.

His armour hangs upon its rest, battles recorded with scarring dents, scratches and tarnish of its plates.

Body intact, soul blemished, his heart heavy with thoughts of struggles forlorn, won by another’s hand.

Recouping now, waiting the trumpets call, to raise his standard again, battle demons and win maidens’ favour.