Oct. 31, 2009
"Touch me not!" is what he said,
A lone warrior, near his death.
Push me away, is what he did,
Stumbled on his feet, in his face the pain is hid.
His limbs were battered, his body broke,
His soul abated, and no more courage can be evoked.
His knees are weak, his arms are dead,
The stomach wretched, it poured blood red.
All around him the crowds delight,
His suffering is what in their hearts excite.
His enemies are jeering, his friends have fled,
The ravens circled, and the vultures fed.
His breast beat fear as they circled around,
Could not defuse it, because the blood abound.
But what a man he was they did not know,
A victory to surrender he does not bestow.
"Get up!" is what he yelled,
His inner self is what rebelled.
He gave a smile despite the pain,
Humiliation to him does not remain.
He clutched his weapon and charged ahead,
He fought to oblivion despite his dread.
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