Slow Burn: A Poetry Collection

The Death of a Warrior

He spoke

with strange hope.

His scars breathed.

He was the ice;

one who had claws.

With a war shield

in his hands,

those eyes of his died.

His grave curved

beneath turbulent skies,

his hands frantic

for the dark he'd known.

And unlike these strange shades,

he was ruptured again and again

with tape over oozing wounds

and a bitterness to last the ages.