Centurion

Centurion 09/27/2010


The sky turns crimson, as the Blood of Winter signals the upcoming frost.

We thought the war had ended when the Laurel seeds were planted. Down by the sea
they had waited for me, all single file, Comrades, Brothers-In-Arms, our faces
betraying no emotion. Under A Eternal Winter did the River's ripples offer a
blissful caress.

Into the Water, will our bones be plundered, our bodies weary, tired, cold and
hungry. Our souls tired by the clash and demands of battle. Images of
crossed-swords and battlecries, gush forth my tears. With our Kingdom felled and
nowhere else to build, we go to embrace our Mother.

I look behind me startled at the visage, bodies vanished, no standing line of
soldiers. Tears flow openly as I remember, the final battle, all my brothers
dead and gone, there's only one lone survivor.

It is only me and the flowing River.

©2010 Tragedienne Belle Morte