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Weary, old and hobbled
I take to the field,
tiny flame still burning,
refuses to yield.
Warriors of my vintage,
few and far between;
Ulysses yearns for fire,
for adventure dreams.

Crack and pop the backbone,
crack and pop the hip,
crack and pop the knuckles
on my fingers stiff.
Look out on vast ocean
searching for the sun,
all is starry stillness;
we battle at dawn.

Atlantic at sunrise,
twilight turns blood red,
I’ve a million worries
running through my head.
How foolish is old man
cannot recognize
glory days are over,
slipped well past his prime?

Near me great Nephilim
on altar repose,
descendants of angels,
wearing golden robes.
Barachiel smiles,
throws back snow-white mane
steps down from his chancel,
looks on in disdain.

Though he remains silent
hear just what he thinks
soon so-called warriors
of our blood he’ll drink.
Bow before the sunrise,
kneel before The Son,
stand with loins ungirded,
our battle’s begun.

Singly into the brine
through narrow crevice
at mercy of the waves,
regain land at last.
Onward to Ragnarök,
my feet lead to doom,
take to ferocious steeds,
fight many consumes.

No longer lieutenant,
now’ve just corporal’s stripes,
energy of calv’ry,
I put up good fight.
Nephilim have flown by,
battling for thrown
I retrace our warpath
then swim slowly home.

To victor goes spoils,
I’m but vanquished lout
there’s victors and losers,
my day ends in rout.
I’ve no longer spirit
of a warrior
Durga’s arms embrace me,
she is vanquisher.

Better to do battle,
withstand heavy blows
than sail into sunset
and quietly go.
Rosebuds have been gathered,
and my races run
know my body’s hobbled,
refuse to succumb.