Of Doves

From where do you ride, battle-born?
Shield riven, sword snapped into shards
armor gouged in violence unending
It is the heart-blood that steams upon you.

My captain, I ride fresh from war with myself
when upon waking I saw the mirrored-me
and beheld the visage of guilt long held
Desolation of condemnation draped upon it.

My sword cleaved once, twice and thrice
the sinews of my weary arms remembered
my thoughts were not required, my lord
and the enemy lay bloodied upon the field

But as I raised my brand in victory
I gazed down to claim my prize
there upon the crimsoned grass lay I
gazing up at myself and asking why

For in my lust for bloody war
my blade had pieced my own desires
and shattered by shame it fell
like so many window-shards upon the field

At once I felt the sting
of all three blows invade my skin
robbing me of eye-brightened found-youth
as the earth drank deeply of ruined-red

My mount is canny; he knew the way
to my mountain home of sorrow
and thence I speed like arrow-shot
though I despair of reaching respite

My son, you’ll never make it there
so let us make your barrow here
slide from your mount and take your rest
and let war-drums cease to beguile

Perhaps in time your heart again
will quicken without suffering
or you may rest beneath the green
and nevermore your smile be seen