Broken. As I sit here
the weight of chain mail holding down my shoulders
my neck
as blood drops through my brow.
Bodies fanning out.
What have i done.
To ride so far.
To kill.
What strength did I think this would bring.
Empty like a gallon after depositing its wares.
Blank.
It wasn’t meant to end this way.
No roses.
No children running to hug me.
Just disentry, disease, dear and dismembered corpses – living and gone to ground.
Who was I to think mercy was a gift.
My weakness is my strength.
For it has spelled a lifelong torture.
A torture that will follow me beyond the grave.
Tortured by the souls I should now carry.
PoemsofaDad 