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I was thinking about old battles and what it was like to participate in
them when this came to mind.
The warrior stands atop a high bluff,
weapons at his side, polished and ready.
He looks upon the battlefield below
wondering how many more he will kill
before the day is through and the war won.
Widows weeping, and fatherless children;
like ghosts, they disrupt his calm reverie.
His resolve flickers for just a moment
until the battle trumpets proudly sound
to remind him of who and where he is.
As the trumpets cry out their warlike calls
the fever rises in him once again.
His body responds as to a caress,
gooseflesh rising on his excited skin,
his mind engulfed in valorous glory.
Filled with a singleminded violence,
his energy peaks with a battle cry
as his instincts crush all hope of reason.
He rushes for the hated enemies,
his thoughts no longer fettered by remorse.
A cold sun shines down on the battlefield
reflecting its light off the clashing swords.
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