Tuesday, 23 July 2013

The gladiator

to stand on his own,
the legacy of his known,
he is afraid of it, though,
he does not wish this, though,
he has a sword, and he's been trained to kill,
but his mind was never settled, never was still,

huge waves of opposing intensity,
rocked the boat of his mind,
his heart asked him to be kind,
but there was just too much scarcity,

he got dreams, and he woke up drenched,
i just silently saw him start,
wrapped shaking fingers over-clenched,
onto the kindness of his heart,

But noone wanted peace, they wanted him to cut and kill,
the broads flocked around him, after he killed a bill,
their hands roved over his breastplate,
and some bended down to overwhelm his clean slate,
but their words didn't please his eardrums,
they were ecstatic over his kill, pouring rum after rum,

He couldn't live this meaninglessly,
he needed to break apart,
he wanted a place he could love,
he got no new start,

His heart weeped at night,
when the broads were out cold,
and some tears traced evil lines,
his soul to the devil he had sold,

The morning came when he was cooked,
only a shell with no soul,
his hands no longer shooked,
and his sword would now howl,

he forgot his killing techniques,
he just went out there and stood,
he lowered his neck for the first time,
and raised his voice at last,
he sang a song of his own,
one he didn't know he had written,
he was loud as bells go,
and clear as a windstroke,
all the others just stood there and saw him,
break; kneel and fall, they stared at him for another minute,
before themselves breaking apart.