(Destined to be forgotten)
Burying his worries deep within him.
Ignoring the bite of frost and wind;
Cuddling the metal like his own kid.
He will not close his eyelids for once;
Looking for wolves those upset the peace.
For he is called the warrior of might;
Might that grant his country, its sleep.
Listening beyond the whistling winds;
For the sound of a rival’s breathe.
Breath that may lead him to choke;
In his own blood gurgling the throat.
Somewhere there across the line;
Another barrel holds a cold lead.
Lead that bore his name on it;
Thirsty for his blood and life.
Thoughts of dear ones embrace him;
Very next moment he flings them away.
Though the memories melt him down;
Never deviates from the line of duty.
The metal, dead cold numbs his palms;
But can’t spread the numbness to soul.
For he is the warrior of might;Might that let him stand as a shield.