asking myself to stop
loving him
is like asking someone
to stop breathing.

love shouldn’t land
like a ton of bricks.

no matter how hard
i try to focus
on someone else –
anyone –
i keep reaching
back for him.

my walls
aren’t strong enough
to withhold the blow
and defend me
against this.

The battle is about to begin.
I am the Knight, he is the Gladiator—
and this is a battle of Truth.

Steel rang upon steel,
and the air was thick with the scent of iron and sweat.
Two warriors met beneath the gaze of eternity—
one, a mountain of muscle,
skin bronzed by a thousand suns,
eyes burning with the fire of the arena.
The other, a shadow of polished steel,
clad in the silence of the forge,
her form hidden beneath the will of the gods.

The gladiator struck first—
blades flashing like lightning,
each blow a hymn of war.
The knight staggered beneath the weight,
but the steel did not break,
the throat did not bleed,
the heart did not yield.

Again, the gladiator’s sword bit,
but the bite found no flesh—
only the cold, unyielding kiss of armor.
The crowd of unseen spirits roared in the heavens,
for the gods had wrapped the knight in their own breastplate,
as it is written: no arrow shall pierce her,
no sword shall drink of her blood.

Breathless, the giant faltered—
skin bare, throat bared to the wind,
heart beating unguarded beneath mortal ribs.
The knight saw the opening
and drove the steel deep into the center of that beating drum.
The earth drank the gladiator’s strength,
and silence fell like a veil.

The knight stood,
not by strength alone,
but by the shield of the unseen—
the armor of the gods,
which guards the throat,
guards the heart,
and delivers victory to the one the gods have chosen.

...

Within the fortress of my chest,
two armies rise at dawn—
one clad in crimson silk,
the other in shadowed steel.

Love, with hands warm as sunrise,
lays flowers along the corridors of my mind, promising peace in a voice
that feels like home.

Hate, with eyes like storm-torn skies,
sets fire to every blooming thing,
swearing the ruin is mercy,
and the ashes, my salvation.

They march the same veins,
drink from the same pulse,
speak in the same tongue—
and yet their banners
will never fly side by side.

Some nights, Love wins
and the world feels golden.
Some nights, Hate takes the crown
and I sharpen my silence into swords.

But more often—
they lock arms in stalemate,
pressing their weight upon my soul,
neither yielding,
neither retreating,
leaving me
to live in the uneasy kingdom
where both are king.

"The heart of man is a divided river,
and its two streams know not the other’s course."
— Epic of Gilgamesh

...

From Saffron Walden wends the Panta,
Willow lined, its gentle flow.
On to Bocking wind the waters.
Green and lush the Willows grow.
Then to Coggeshall, Kelvedon, Witham,
Maldon; once past, then the Sea
Where ebb and flood dictate its passage.
Wading waters to Northey.
That island where the Norsemen be.
And from where they threaten Maldon;
Wealthy merchants, Royal mint.
Maldon, silver pence which sing
For Ethelred, the English king.

So, Byrhtnoth, Ealdorman of Essex,
Bid your wife Ælfflæd farewell.
Buckle sword and shoulder shield.
Have roused the warriors of your hearth;
Chosen men who will not yield.
Have sworn to honour Byrhtnoth’s name,
Byrhtnoth’s treasure, Byrhtnoth’s fame.

While you who watch sit back, take in your breath
As Byrhtnoth and his chosen men ride singing to their death.
Reflect, what is it that you see reflected here?
Terrors threatened? Terrors braved?
Maldon threatened? Maldon saved?
Or is there something more that we might glean?
Come, read on with me, and through my words
Might we together view the tragic, glorious scene.

———————-

Rise up you men of Essex,
Come forth with me this day.
There are Vikings to be fighting
And their ships are in the bay.
The harvest it must wait for now,
Take down your bow, and heft your spear. 
Your women, leave them with the plough
For we have foes and they draw near.

And Byrthnoth wants the fighting men
Of Langford, Haybridge, Woodham Walter,
Forming up and locking shields.
To launch their spears and not to falter.
 
And, as you form his chosen men
Will show you how to brace your shield
To make your ******: when high, when low,
To stamp, to push, thus as they yield
 You will not stumble, but will ****
Trygvason’s ravens. And by your cutting down,
Those not dead will turn to run.
And in the darkening water, there will drown.
 
—————
 
The Essex men they loosed their arrows,
Lancing, dancing to the sky,
To turn them, make them deathward plunging
On those Vikings standing by.
This whilst Aelfere, Wulfstan, Maccus;
Grim, named-men and skilled in war,
Placed by their Earl to block the causeway, 
Roared their boasts. Defying Thor.
 
And Olaf tore his beard and howled 
His hatred for the English there. 
‘You will not fight as man to man.
Shield to shield you do not dare.
 So, craven Saxon, if you won’t fight,
Dare by combat, take the field;
Give me Danegeld, compensation,
Ethelred’s silver to me yield.
Then I will take my boats away;
Slake my thirst elsewhere to fight
With men of metal, stalwart warriors
Unafraid of Viking might.’
 
—————
 
Byrthnoth called his men together.
‘Free your horses, give your hands.
We fight for Ethelred and for Essex.
Win or loose, here Byrhtnoth stands.’
Then strode he forth, both proud and grim. 
He raised his shield, he shook his spear. 
He cursed those men across the sea-tide,
Swearing words for them to hear.
‘We give you nothing arrant sea wolf.’
Loud words hurled across the water.
‘Come, with me fight and I will promise
Spears and swords and ****** slaughter.’
 
Eager then the sea-wolves wade.
Across the causeway now they go.
Pushing past those face-down floating
With the ebb-tide, to and thro.
While Byrhtnoth cheers the men of Essex.
Bids his thanes move to their place.
The warrior lord then roars defiance;
‘Come, with these Northmen let’s embrace.’
 
—————
 
The raiders now form by the River.
Carefully, neither crowd nor crush.
This so Woden’s skilful Warcraft
Wefts within their first spear rush.
While men of Essex, jeering, cheering,
Lock their shield-wall, stamp and go.
And those supporting launch spear-volleys;
Manic death theirs soon to know.
 
Now stands forth, bold, a Viking warrior.
Shield held fast and spear point raised;
To **** the Essex champion early,
Win much gold and be thus praised.
His ******, makes but a partial wound,
By Byrhtnoth’s shield is cast asunder. 
Opened thus, he cries to God,
His god of war, his god of thunder.
But Byrhtnoth, always battle-savage,
Laughs and roars his battle cry.
Has pierced the Viking’s neck and breast plate.
Holds him down to watch him die.
 
—————
 
And ravens wheel about the sky,
They croak delight at what they see.
And Essex farms, the fens, the fastness 
Wonder what their fate will be.
 
—————
Then, a spear strikes Byrhtnoth, hardly.
Wulfstans’ child - he pulls it out.
And makes a lunge at the attacker.
Our leader’s down, goes up the shout.
Then snarls another from the melee,
Viking warrior seeking plunder.
Broad sword drawn from ready sheath 
Byrhtnoth slashes, treads him under.
 
Bloodied, frothing, lips a snarl.
Blood-lust crazed, the Earl he stands.
Roars ‘Ethelred, my king, my king.’
Holds up his sword with both his hands.
And as the Essex men he urges
Surge with shield ‘gainst Viking shield,
The Past, the Present and what shall be;
Those Norns, decide who wins this field.
 And bitter in the battle rush,
The men of Essex, fighting there:
Intensive blood-rage, focused ******,
Glory, fame, for those who dare.
 
But Godric sees the blood run freely.
Sees his Earl begin to sway.
He and his brothers love not this battle.
Horses stealing, sneak away.
Offa’s sons, all sworn-men made.
And Godric rides the chieftain’s grey.
Those brothers swear away their honour;
Oath-breaking, for their lives they trade.
 
This, while pagan spear tears Byrhtnoth’s arm;
His sword, it falls from powerless hand.
The Earl, he shakes his grizzled head.
With loss of blood he cannot stand.
So, at the last the war-lord topples.
Crashing down he shakes the Earth.
His war band grimly gather round him.
Each man sworn, all men of worth:
Aesferf, Eadward, Erdric, Wulfmer,
Sworn as kinsmen, guard their chief.
Lock shields against the savage onslaught,
Bitter fighting, bitter grief.
Giving life, but giving dearly;
Keeping slathering wolves at bay.
Bound by oath, they stay with Byrhtnoth.
Even though they’ve lost the way.
 
For seeing Byrhtnoth’s grey nag leaving,
Thinking he, not Godric, rides there.
Leave the battle; Essex farmers;
War-worn, weary, in despair.
 
Berserk now, Eadward leaves his chieftain.
Refusing just to stand at bay.
His leap, it shatters Viking shield wall;
Vengeance, slaughter, take the day.
 Savage, shrewd, tall Wulfmer follows;
Axe blade, shield-rims pulling down.
Throat-wise thrusting,  spear-blade striking,
Blood-drenched Vikings, choking, drown.
 
—————
 
Olaf meanwhile quaffs his mead;
Standing tall midst all the dead.
He laughs then lifts his horn aloft,
‘A toast, and gold for Byrhtnoth’s head.’
At this his frenzied warriors roar.
Slaughter laughs out loud and long.
Proud men clashing shield to shield.
A mighty tale, a mighty song.
And round Byrthnoth’s trampled corpse;
Desperate fighting; good men fall.
Sworn by oath, fight to their end;
Less Godric - foul, dead be they all.
 
—————
 
But Essex farms escape the fire
They who died on Panta’s shore,
Those that Byrthnoth’s death inspired,
Gave their all, could give no more.
And Maldon never knew the sword;
And women welcome home or weep.
Those dead and quiet a mist conceals;
And Byrhtnoth in his grave can sleep.

You say your demons haunt you.
But I’ve stared into worse —
and they blinked first.

If yours would face me,
I’d burn them down with truth and fury,
one by one,
until your name was free.

But they don’t.

They wear your face.
Speak with your voice.
And you…
you still call them home.

So I wait.
Not because I’m weak —
but because this battle is not mine to win.
It’s yours to start.

But when you do?
I’ll be there. Sword drawn. Fire ready.
Not to fight for you —
but with you.

I wasn’t made for screens and noise,
For empty days and plastic joys.
There’s something deeper in my chest,
A call to rise, a silent quest.

My hands were shaped to hold a flame,
Not chase applause, not play the game.
I feel the weight of unseen wars,
Fought in silence, behind closed doors.

The dragons now wear modern skin,
Anxiety, the grind, the spin.
They steal our peace, they drain our light,
And yet we smile, too tired to fight.

The princess isn’t locked away,
She’s here in every break of day.
She’s love I guard, the voice I know,
The reason I won’t let life go.

But in this world of ticking time,
Where dreams are shelved and truth’s a mime,
A warrior soul feels out of place,
Still searching for its rightful space.

Yet I endure, I still ignite,
A flicker in the hollow night.
If not to win, then just to try,
To live with heart before I die.

Part one
Caesar cries. An anguish riven home
By news that through the city has been spread
Of Varus and his legions who now lie dead
In far off Gaul. Those men they stare
With sightless eyes. Yearning souls bereft of home.
Poor, ****** souls; yet once the pride of Rome.

How, might you ask, those eagles lost and on that mound
In sacrifice laid out before the sacred Oak?
There, where Wotan took the spear and spoke
Foretelling and demanding ****** slaughter.
Who was it listened, then with cruel, deliberate treachery found
‘Midst Teutorburg, that frenzied, ****** killing ground?

Where Ash and Oak, where Beech and Thorn
Loom from the mist which lingers there.
Where shadowed places, dark and cold
Hide sphagnum bog; the wolf, the bear
Which pad and snuffle through the threatening gloom.
Fool Varus listening to advice
Gave up his men for sacrifice.

Arminius, the Roman name they gave him.
Taken hostage when a child.
Taught Roman ways, imbued the culture.
Disciplined life, not growing wild,
Why though was it no one saw
His worship still of Wotan, Lord of Frenzy, and of War.

This the man who Varus sponsored,
This the man, his friend, his guide.
He knew the tribesmen, spoke their language,
Cherusci by birth, by pride.
Arminius, whom the Romans fostered.
Arminius, he was why they died.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Two)

Now that Oak, that shattered Oak;
Lightning struck, it ancient stands
With branches blood stained, ground now littered;
Iron rusted that once glittered,
Lethal weapons cast aside,
And bones, bleached bones, of those who died.

From Vetera, march away,
Not thinking of their fate that day.
Proud columns, eagles high, they leave;
(Unseen the loom the Parcae weave.)
The Seventeenth, Eighteenth, Nineteenth, all
Destined by spear and axe to fall.

They march ‘neath Ash and ‘neath the Oak,
‘Neath Beech, through tangled Thorn.
And splash a muddied, puddled trail,
A trail that’s not been worn.
By chanted cadence they keep step
These men all Roman sworn.

For Varus has received the news
Of tribal rebels to his North.
Arminius, questioned for his views,
Suggests a detour, then to sally forth.
And so, with Cherusci their guide
The legions march. Not knowing that their friend has lied.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Three)

Nighttime now doth through darkening woodland creep.
The bear and wolf unsheathe sharp claw.
While those in ambush take their turn to sleep
And from cruel sky the unrelenting rain doth pour.
The Romans, unaware, in camp they curse and try
To keep their slingshots and their bowstrings dry.

This while Varus tosses, uneasy in the night,
Kept awake by screaming echoes from his past?
Does Arminius going missing mean there’s going to be a fight?
And will the coming morning be his last?
Who knows the fate of man, or men.
Have omina been ignored? If so why, and when.

And now ‘tween wood and bog marsh, over heathland
March those legions, eagles high;
Cadence calling, stumbling, splashing,
Rain, it pours from lowering sky.
Heavens rumble, lightning flickers.
Spears are launched, and thus men die.

Closely formed, penned in tight,
No room to ******, no room to fight.
The writhing wounded, *****, blood;
Trampled entrails and the mud.
Thor’s rumbling thunder, drenching rain;
Lightning flashing then the pain.

Beneath locked shields they curse, the dying;
Contorted, Romans, screaming, crying.
Hurtling spears, the butcher’s list
Writ large in terror, Wotan’s fist.
And Mjolnir, loved, caressed by Thor,
Beloved of Aesir, God of War.

Deprived of bow, the use of sling;
Constrained twixt hillside and a marshy bog;
Unfocused and unable thus to bring
To bear their usual clarity of pressure, it’s just fog - a fog
Of mindless terror; which is why they scream.
And for Arminius this, a culmination of his dream.

And so in frenzied lust it ends, the killing;
Vengeful hatred why they fought.
The tribes involved - Arminius willing -,
Cherusci, Chatti, Marsi, they all sought
From ambush and by spear and axe
To end the hated Roman’s rule, the hated Roman’s tax.

—————
Teutorburger Wald
(Part four) German vengeance

And thus in Wotan’s sacred grove
In wicker baskets freshly wove,
Sullen, proud but anguished men
Are jeered at, taunted, howled at, then
Disbelieving of the savage ire
Die shrieking, screaming, in the fire.

This while warriors roar their boast;
To Odin, Frey and Njord make toast;
And those surrendered by their chiefs:
Now naked, Kneeling, dull of eye;
Rank on rank, axes swinging;
Rank on rank the legions die.

Then, Varus has been found, the cry.
His severed head, it’s held up high.
The tribesmen gloat, they gather round
The spot where Varus, dead, was found.
The body though, to rot  it’s kicked aside,
Deceived, defeated, fated thus his suicide?

—————

Now green grasses grow there where the slain
Once, muddied, bloodied, lay forlorn.
Whispers soft the gentle rain
On Ash, on Beech on Oak on Thorn.
Three legions once stood side by side,
This tranquil glade was where they died.

Part one
Long ago in Macedon
Beneath the burning Sun
While busy bees played midst the Thyme
And butterflies made flutter,
When savage Ares thought to stir
And sleepy gods to mutter.

Philip brought his bride back home
To Sun scorched Pella, full of grace.
Alexander then, the son she bore,
Strong in body, fair of face.
God loved; his mother - and Zeus, she swore,
Had made her son destined for war.

Beyond all that expressed and those
Symbolic sacraments whose right
Olympias endorsed and with her child
Against the king made with to fight:
The savage dancing and the wine;
Dionysus her Mystery, and the snake divine.

But, to baulk her Gods the King stood fast;
The boy his lessons made to do:
Stern duties, Leonidas taught;
Culture, from Euripides.
Logic, reasoning, Aristotle;
Riding, hunting, fighting too;

As well he took Eurydice,
Of Macedonia, nobly born.
The niece of one called Attalus,
A General - now to Philip sworn.
But of children would he dare?
Was Alexander not the rightful heir.

He, known to all, a son of Zeus;
(as indeed Dionysus;)
Thus which Oracle would say
That his was not the rightful way?
The furies tore their hair, they said
His mother - she would see them dead.

First a girl child then a son.
That questioned Alexander’s right.
Its threatening presence, that’s the one
Olympias swore she’d go to fight.
She, with Megaera, Tisiphone, Alecto; those
Jealous, angry, vengeful, daughters of the night.

Intentions though can wait for years,
And so Olympias, exiled, bode her time.
While Philip with his oldest son
Defeated  Athens, Thebes, the Sacred Band.
And thus with Nike, hand in hand
Unaware of plot, of Delos, do they stand

Now with the might of all things Greek,
Of Persian conquests set to seek.
Who knows what Philip might have been
Did not his Moirai intervene
When Pausanias with frenzied, savage, vicious knife
Cut down the King to end his life.

Treachery, ******; why do they shriek
And spit their venom to depose.
What moves the fates do you suppose?
Poor Pella - standing now so cold, so bleak.
Olympias - of her twas said,
Enough, she cried, I want him dead.

Thus Alexander born of love because of hate,
While dying Philip trembled, shivering in the dust,
He, who history would remember as the Great
Assumed his place because of fate - and not because of lust;
Whereas Olympias, mother, regicide, Clotho’s *****,
Ensured because of murderous fright,
Despised she’d be for ever more.

——————

Part two:

And Power it cloaks the young man’s shoulders,
He who sits now on the throne.
The hills resound, fierce acclamations,
(Beaten shields and upraised spears.)
From the lowland raucous cheers;
And thus the Phalanx starts its slow march.
While on Pella, Kratos leers.

For despite the cloying, nursery care,
His father rarely being there,
He’d sacked a city, then elsewhere
(Harsh matters in the harshest school)
The boy had ‘gainst the Maedi, proved the rule.
So, when his generals came they saw
A man, the fighter fit for war.

And at the meeting, his first greeting
Of the generals as their king:
Eumenes, Leonnatus, Demaratus bold;
Erigyius, Hephaestion, all friends, and friends of old;
He takes each hand, gives each the stare
Then puts it bluntly will they dare
With Macedonian might - to Persia would they go and fight?

Bucephalus, in his stable, snorts then lifts his head.
Flames flare, fierce burns the fire, but now the bull is dead.
Killed as sacred hymns are sung and ancient prayers said.

———————-

Part three:

And on the plain drawn up in ranks,
Do Alexander’s men give thanks.
Shield locked with shield, dressed by the right,
Thirty thousand men to fight.
The black Dooms gather, grim-eyed, glare
Towards the east, at Darius where
With Memnon - he of Rhodes who seeks to meet
With Nike’s favour, but with Macedon incurs defeat.

And those, all those, who roar that day
Seek for glory, fight for pay;
Well trained; well drilled; but no one saw
Such bold adventure, ****** war.
Just feed us; pay us; give us arms
They cry, and then we’ll fight - as Philip taught;
For, Alexander, at this point of time
Still in your father’s image are you wrought.

And though the phalanx, Philip’s joy,
And Alexander had its value, as a boy
He’d sought for ways to better it and - of course
He did that by the use of horse - and lance.
Thus those who called him merely Philip’s son
Were wrong. For Granicus proved him to be one
Of those that through their own estate
Are by history called the Great.

So - the Granicus river, fast and wide but never deep;
It’s muddy banks in places sloped and steep;
Preventing Phalanx and the use of spear;
But Alexander, his General’s words chose not to hear,
In fierce and ****** fighting proved Parmenion wrong,
That Alexander’s Tyche, his Macedonia, was too strong.
With Rhoesaces and bold Spithridates dead
The Persians turned and from the battle fled.

But Memnon’s Greeks,
They who’d hefted shield and sword,
And stood their ground - in seeking quarter they
were slaughtered almost to a man.
Survivors, they were sent to Greece, enslaved.
When questioned why,
Alexander said - because I can.