Braveheart

A man’s destination

is not his destiny.

– T.S Eliot

Weathering the deep of the night,

a lone warrior rages against the walls

that bar his ever-trod path.

Unseen rise these walls,

akin to those within the warrior’s heart:

Thin as glass, and as mocking in device,

cracking up with derision

as he thrusts his armored fists

again, again, again.

Numb to the agony,

shielded from the wings of Time,

deaf to the screeching foe he faces,

he fights his lost war,

bejeweled like a glowing star

before the tides of deathless darkness.

And as he hovers there,

abandoned in the cold,

the ice grips his heart

and he beholds before him

the one enemy no might will slay.

None shall stand when the demon stings,

they say, and at last

after an eternity of blood

the warrior drops to the ground.

His armor rent, his banners torn,

his razor arms lie broken, worn,

His helm, his famous helm of lore

now crushed to be the stuff of scorn,

No more battles, no brave deeds

shall the hero ever need,

His tale forgotten, legend lost

buried in the growing frost.

The end has come, the sun has set

the warrior has lost his will:

Finally the daylight shines

and I find the wasp on the windowsill.