The creeping sounds of the night
perpetuate distrust. “The hilt
of my sword, trembles on my grasp…”
Thumping down into the ground,
lies the outline of a beaten soul.
Water drips, dirt meets mold
and appreciation of reality forgets to take its hold…
Vegetation fades the lonely figure
that stares only at the ground.
Amidst a won victory
she lies disbelieving at her silent defeating sound.
There she lies weak, alone… in this vast forest of unknown.
Her steady glance unbeknownst
holds the intensity of insatiable anger…
The water drips on her skin.
The leaves dance with the wind.
Nature covers her trembling shade
… her existence begins fade.
She hates to admit it…. but her mind is afraid.
A warrior fights fiercely at the face of battle,
but in lonesome deals with great defeat.
For it shall never be enough…
Praise and glory will never counterweight
The sense of infinite accomplishment
that a battle – less warrior
Contributor: Andrea Arias
Copyright © 2014 Andrea Arias. All Rights Reserved.