Old scars from old battles
Still reign supreme,
Over mindscapes
And memories.
My blade was sheathed long ago,
But somedays I swear,
The hilt still lives
Within my palm.
Maybe it's the way
My arms tingle
At the sight of a sword,
Or the deep yearn
For the rush of a fight.

"Here!"

I scream,

"Don't you ever fall back,"
"Not to the cries nor bloodied bruises!"

I'm touched by ghosts
Of fallen warriors
They're calling out —

"Never follow our lead"
"Is the death of the battle honourable? Yes."
"But it's the death"
"Of sinners and misers the same."

The old battle rush,
The old memories stocked
With pain,
When will you leave me?
When will you say I'm alright?
Please God, caress me with peace,
And a few moments
Of sanity.
Old demons; old war.
I fought you once with the fervor
And the vigour
Of any great conqueror.
Tell me old scars,
Will you fade and let go?
Will you finally succumb
To grandfather time?
Or am I forever
Stuck with your silent screams
Of misery,
And the ghosted memories
Of goners
And the warriors
Of old?