The Rush

The fragrant flowers trod underfoot,
We rushed forth, weapons drawn,
Armour polished,
Shields ready,
As we impaled ourselves
On the bloodlust of war.
Sacrifices made of
Innocence and hope!
With bitter hearts and desperation,
We rushed forth.

The wishing stars up above
Gaze coldly down upon us, and we,
Teetering on the edge
Of defeat and triumph,
Shot our meteors into the night.
The streaming cries
Of a meteor shower
Falling and burning
Deafens our ears
Until we can no longer hear
The harsh, gloating cries
Of the enemy standing over our fallen
Gazing coldly down.

We push into the unending wave
While blood streams forth,
Because the pain of crippled limbs
And crushed bones,
The pain of burning flesh
And sickly poison running through our veins,
Is still sweeter
Than the pain of defeat-
The despondent hollowness inside
When our lives run out of meaning.
So we scream our warcries
While blood streams forth.

It is when the battlefield quiets
When we are left standing
On corpses
After the metal clanging
And hoarse yelling
Fade into the coppery air
We are left with nothing.
There is nothing to keep us
Safe from reality
From the banality
Of life.
Holding our head in our hands,
We are left standing.



Penned by my hand on the 6th of Mayan, in the year 584 AF.