My name is soldier.
I wield a sword at my hip,
a dirty sword, once gleaming,
now covered in mud and stained in blood.
The word emotion is engraved on its dented blade.

My arm is broken, my bones fractured,
but I carry a shield none the less.
My shield is black, a tainted charcoal.
Undaunted is slashed crudely
onto its dark, shadowed surface.

I wear armor, cracked in places, but strong.
It needs no words, but is covered
in sweat, dirt, and blood from the
gaping wound in my chest.

I stumble through a endless field
of shin deep mud,
stepping over bodies of broken men,
blades thrust into their necks,
bones protruding from their bodies,
blood pouring from their skin
and seeping into the dark brown mud.

My battle is beyond these men's.
It cannot be won, but I will fight never the less,
until cold steel pierces my heart
and ends my one man war.

My name is Soldier.
My name is Poet.