Of Vacos at the Gates of Battle

Of Varcos at the Gates of Battle

My mind doth war upon its feeble self,
Like famished dogs o’er sating mite of bread,
As clashing blades reflect upon mine eyes,
That quail beneath a stoic, furrowed brow.
My chest be raiséd proud to might convey,
Yet heart inside is laden thick with guilt.
Two fists are forméd steeled upon my sides,
Though still I seek the strength to drive them hence.
My weathered sword lay sheathed and lusting blood.
It longs to swill my foes’ dark saline wine.
And though my feet on ground be planted firm,
I fear my spirit wilts within my form.