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Poem

No warrior’s death is coming for me
no blood-stained sword will release
my foolish life from its hollow chest
so slow I die on this field of shame.
Stench of copper vile taste of metal
adrift I’m alone and battered and torn
oh that I could recompense my love!

No quiet wake of honor shall be held
no slow loving march of the damned
solemn to hasten me to eternal sleep
no I shall ever wail silently as I decay.
Terrible mists of doom rise eerily and
creep hauntingly before my fading eyes
cast upon the distant shore of love lost.

No angels of mercy will soar this field
thick with the rancor of my bitter defeat
they will not remove this elegiac song
shrouded by sick stench of stoic hope.
Oh that I could in great haste be felled
not seep bone coldly into Hades cruel
might his dread hot abyss of suffering.

No arrow swift flying will find its mark
no sword nor spear will ever pierce me.
Aye, this poison by which I’ll not die
looses the design of even black vultures.
I will wither and linger alone as it reigns
cold perfect terror over me and claws at
where slow my life leaking seeps to hell.

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