It lunges at your lungs;
the blood of a red-spider, the gasp of a lily.
The cry of his war-soaked honour,
the tang of soreness and silk-paste.
You speak of the ichor on his florid armour,
not the satin lies sinuous under his feet.
Not the eyes of a dead warrior, not the blisters slick on his stitched fame.
Only the sin of a boy-soldier pulled beneath the eyes of fools.
〝 WHY MUST A FIGHTER TRY TO HIDE HIS CHASMIC DESIRES? 〞
YOU ARE READING
WICKED HEARTS
Poetry❝ WE ARE ALL THE BAD IN SOMEONE'S STORY. ❞ do not copy. all rights reserved ⓒ 𑁍 blue rose awards | first place in poetry & second place in unknown story
