At eleventh hour of a has-been life, the painted poet bows an ink-weary head in void ’twixt day and risen moon.
Undeserving, ’tis here at crossroads of spear and fleshly side, our warrior falls hard of unrepented knee… sinner to very core!
And whence came this newly minted ore of seventy and seven pence within grasp? He begins to tremble.
If only the songstress knew where he was in life
Brought forth of clay, discarded
Entertaining notions of self as perceived, every vile word…
Whispers come uneasily to parched lips of the wandering minstrel
All but homeless
Oh’ for shame!
Deign move a thousand waters
If only to fall upon double-edged sword
Bringing back the innocent
Lives long since…
Deep mourning falls upon twist of countenance
As Rachael, who’d not be comforted
For they were naught…….
These are my letters
Please send them home
For such are ’ tears
Of a soldier