Warriors

One warrior stands alone, on a graveyard once a battlefield
All of his enemies slain around him, he is victorious
Yet he weeps, tears mix with blood as they roll down his face
Cut, bruised, scarred
Why does this lone fighter weep?
Do the wounds cause him so much pain?
Is it the pointless deaths he has caused?
The loneliness, has it taken its toll?
Or is he just tired of war, and ready for a new life?
The secret of this prophetic soldier's grief is locked away
Hidden in the depths of his heart, which is all but broken
He wipes the blood and tears from his face
As he treks to his next battlefield

Another warrior in a different war sits in the shade of the forest
His armor covered with scratches and dents
The swords sheathed on his hip radiate a grim aura
Deadly, silent, vengeful, they reek of death
His hand blanketed in scars and bruises of battles past
A helmet set by his feet is decorated with gashes
Painted scarlet with the blood of foes
Foes that had the misfortune of crossing paths with him
However, beneath the swift swords, bloody armor, and brooding demeanor
There is a flickering light, a faint beacon
Difficult to see, but unmistakable
It is duty, it is hope, it is love