Middle Age

Middle Age

The rogue knight sorrowfully sharpens his sepulchral sword

And looks for his enemy over his shoulder

The price for paranoia his isolation affords

As he stews in the darkness getting older

The few ephemeral sparks in the dark

Are the only things the soldier sees

His weapon must be stark before he embarks

On his quest to cut down inquires

Early Morning came without warning

To the tired, transfixed Tristan

The prairie grass, acres wide and wet

And battleground for his final mission

He stabbed the morning rise till it turned red

Then slipped on the dew and fell on his blade

That was the day I found my young father dead

Just outside the hospital’s oncologic cave


One Response to “Middle Age”

  1. Nice. Rather depressive.

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