Ides Of May

Feels like a fog.
A haze
Of death
And decay

Hanging off the
Ground
And lingering like
A reaper

Over corpses of
Metal;
Other dead
Crusaders.

I want to join them
And leave this
Dreary, macabre
Battlefield;

To be able to choose
Between two flags
Of old
And new.

I don’t want to polish
My armor every morning
And sheath a sword
Every night.

I’m too young
To feel so
Weathered, none
For the better,

And while these
Dents and punctures
Occurred, I’ve still
Stood right here.

Armor all but gone.
I’ve been worn down
And I can’t keep count
Of the scars I’ve found.

Now the proxy
Was alone
With beaten armor
And bloodied sword.

Yet I would die
With honor,
And not by
My own hand.

My best friend is right:
Rope is cheap.
But he died in the fight
Weeks ago.

So there I wait
For a worthy
Opponent to
Challenge me,

Because

The Ides of May
Have come to slay.
And maybe, just maybe,
The end is today.

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