War.
War separates us, you on one side, me on the other.
You on the battlefield, me too far removed from it.
We stay away from each other during the day, you on the battlefield and me away from it. But the night you come back to me wounded and I tend to such wounds. Some nights you tell me stories of the battlefield, some nights you do not.
This cycle keeps repeating, over and over.
I long for the days where we would run up the mountain, where we would hunt and spend all our time together.
I long for those careless days where out biggest problems were who would be the first to break the ice after a harsh winter.
Oh, how I long for them.
I miss you, but you are far gone, drank in all the fame war can bring you.
You are blinded by it and so you do not see the arrow that strucks your heel.
“Come back to me” - I call every morning.
But you are far gone, in war, too blinded by fame and so you do not see the arrow that strucks your heel.
The same arrow strucks me too, but it is my heart that bleeds.
Oh, Achilles
You have thorn me apart.
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Poems and Such
PoetryShort poems and stories, written in the spur of a moment, when inspiration had struck me
