I wish I could forever be
Lost in my private reverie
A hero’s life is, meant for me
The likes of which you’ll never see
Marteen stood on the ramparts and gazed across the valley below the city walls. From here he could see the armies of the North and their encampments. There must be a million men, he thought to himself. Surely, tomorrow this city will fall and we will all fall with it.
How many must die?
How many must be maimed?
How many families will be ripped asunder and destroyed;
because of the ego of one?
Marteen was a pragmatic man.
He was not a romantic, or a poet, like his comrades.
His comrades looked out at the armies of the North and saw pageantry. They saw banners waving in the breeze. They saw grand war horses, tents and encampments. They saw the glory of war. Kings and generals loved romantics and poets. Poets were willing to die for a handful of flowers, or a smile from their queen. They saw the glory of war.
Marteen saw the darker side. Marteen saw destruction, death, rivers of blood, fire and ruin. Marteen saw horror.
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Becky Ross Michael: an author's blog
A Wife, My Verse, and Every Little Thing
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Right time. Right place. Wrong hero.
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Reinventing the Tagline One Existential Crisis at a Time
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Poetry from a Dublin Scientist
"As we better understand the story, it is likely that its mystery does not decrease; rather it simply grows more beautiful" - Eudora A. Welty
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