To the people,
I feel I've won.
To the home,
I'd never run.
The war is over,
My sword is bare.
Neither in blood,
Flesh, or hair.
The battle is victory,
On my knees.
The Sergeant calls,
Orders of pleas.
Into the night a rider races across a meadow, following his heart into the night. He cries for something, someone, I do not know, nothing is victory, in this happy ending.
To the people,
I feel I've lost.
To my home,
I forget the cost.
The war is raging,
My sword is not bare.
Covered in blood,
Flesh, and hair.
The battle is misery,
On my knees.
The Sergeant begs,
Cowardly pleas.
This is one huge metaphor, I just wanted to make that known. I've had many people read this poem and think that I was being literal. This is a life's battle I am going through at the moment. If you can guess who I am in the poem, I'll return whatever you do. (read, rate, or comment.)
