Serena Malcolm

And so this is Sparta:
The field is set,
The players swords
are blood red, wet
The clash of steel,
and cries of thirst
The line between justice
and murder blurs,
As does the footstep
of the man before,
Who ran from the trenches
Unto the war,
And he was felled,
And you are next
Your boot in the imprint,
of his final step,
The last enemy stands
and you catch his eye
His strength is ebbing,
On death’s great tide,
And in a laboured breath
– Or two –
You see that he
resembles you,
You see his pain,
You smell his fear,
You catch a glimpse
of one lone tear,
And there’s the reaper
standing by,
Hungry to claim the final life,
And your sword is heavy,
And your hand is weak,
And your spirit is loathed to
break the meek,
And you stand here both,
Just you and he,
One life must end
You both concede,
He lifts his weapon,
He steadies his feet,
You match his stance,
You grit your teeth,
Memories of loved ones
begin to creep,
You close your eyes
and begin to weep,
You hear him struggle,
As he shuffles toward,
You whisper a prayer,
And run through his sword.