Fog of War
On a cold December night, battles rage, many another years ago.
The wind blows, adding chills to any hardened hearts as the luminous moon glows.
Sounds of armor clanking, steel clashing, helmets crashing onto the dampened ground.
A warrior soiled with blood and dirt, revolving around, surrounded, refusing to back down.
His honor is astronomical, his strength elephantine, and his skills forever unmatched.
The ones that surrounded him lacked superior skills, and he saw his chance to attack.
His enemies attempted to draw back, and his sword was thrust into one’s thorax.
He spun around, and three more were slayed as the sound of armor snapped.
A painful sensation sent shocks up his spine, he looked down, found a wound in his side.
Knew this meant his grave soon arrives, fell, and started recalling memories to his mind.
Memories of sin, and memories of hate. Memories of the first time he wielded the blade.
And the humans he’d slain, without remorse of their fate, or the hearts it would break.
This man realized every kill was a murder, even blinded my war, families would suffer..
Children with only mothers, then he thought of a young boy without an older brother.
Tears streamed down his hardened face, and the man looked backed on young life.
Death to his wife, Assassinated in coldness, and no chance to say “Good bye”.
He fell to his knees, and thought of his son, who’s location is unknown.
The only one he could call his own, the one who greeted him when he arrived home.
The warrior smashed to the ground, helmet rolled away, and his eyes grew weary.
Then he saw a vision that was leery, looked into the one who killed him, his eyes blurry.
He saw his own offspring, for his son kneeled beside him, his lips murmured “Forgive me”.
But the Father herd no words, it seems as suffering of families was revenged by irony.