Interesting Piece

Dredging around, woeful and slow,
Barely moving after such a horrible blow,
Struck in the chest, now gasping for air,
Battered body, blood soaked hair,
All goes blank, stretching far back in time,
Back when he was happy, a feeling sublime.

It all started, the crisp night in June,
Damp rolling hills, lit up by the moon.
Waiting for hours, laying awake,
Knowing of the coming horrible fate.
Silence was the order, order among men,
Calming broken nerves and tending to them.
Then it was broken by a sharp piercing scream,
Time was up, ‘twas no longer a dream.
They set up their guard at each of their posts,
Ready for the onslaught by this treacherous host.
Over the hills they came, yearning for blood,
Gates of hell broken, so came the flood.
Crashing into the enemy, a wave to a beach,
Both sides held firm preventing a breach.
As time passed, more blood was spilled,
They killed without mercy, feeling or guilt.
Brutality continued, but one above all,
Enduring the combat, while still standing tall.
After a seeming eternity, the battle did end,
Left were only the gallant, the captains among men.
Devastation, ‘twas the order of morn,
Lay about the survivors, among the grief and scorn
Yet on this day, a hero was born,
Revolution began that chaotic morn.
The people would follow, whatever his lead,
They found their saviour, ready to believe.

Slowly, he collapses to his knees,
Struggling every moment to simply breath.
His opponent, slowly sidesteps around,
Positioning himself perfectly on the ground.
Gesturing to the crowd, calling for cheers,
All do so, knowing the end is near.
Amid all the ringing, the crowd in his head,
His mind fades out and wanders again.

Standing up tall, he looks at a man,
Who holds a nation in the palm of his hand.
This hero opposed him, holding great doubt,
In several actions their leaders carried out.
Face to face, it was becoming quite clear,
This newborn hero was their up most fear.
From the field of battle, he gained power and fame,
With infinite success in their own war games.
The people’s champion, of whom he was known,
Sat opposite a king, at the edge of his thrown.

Screams coming so loud, like thunder they roared,
Standing there was the opponent, begging for more,
Grabbing weapon from holster, the enemy readied,
But the mind of the saviour was no longer steady.
Flash of white followed by strokes of black,
His state of mind sent flailing back.

Of all things that a person holds dear,
Freedom is always most sincere.
Now he endures this hell on earth,
With out retribution, without rebirth.
A slave to his country, amusement to some,
A soldier in a war never to be won.
Each day, marching up stairs to a field,
Surrounded by seats, stone of great yield.
Each battle is fought at overwhelming odds,
Each duel to the death, brings them applause.
Fear never sinks in, death is too real,
No one could remorse, not one could feel.
The carnage unleashed is beyond humane,
The minds of these warriors is far from sane.
Forced to inflict pain, pain that holds no bounds
Simply to appease all those around.
Not by his choice, after all he’s a slave,
Like so many others without a grave
He is the Victim of power, oppression and greed,
His name unremembered, erased by the lead.
He is the example, of the revolutionary flare,
Their liberties stripped, no freedoms to bare.
His leaders, the ones whom he trust,
Put fourth their own agenda of power and lust.
But he stood alone, refused to obey,
And now emprisoned and others look away.

So after years of waking to this,
After years of avoiding deaths fatal kiss.
The finally blow is struck, the end has come,
Gladiator to all, remembered by none.

Dredging around, woeful and slow, Barely moving after such a horrible blow, Struck in the chest, now gasping for air, Battered body, blood soaked hair, All goes blank, stretching far back in time, Back when he was happy, a feeling sublime. It all started, the crisp night in June, Damp rolling hills, lit up by the moon. Waiting for hours, laying awake, Knowing of the coming horrible fate. Silence was the order, order among men, Calming broken nerves and tending to them. Then it was broken by a sharp piercing scream, Time was up, ‘twas no longer a dream. They set up their guard at each of their posts, Ready for the onslaught by this treacherous host. Over the hills they came, yearning for blood, Gates of hell broken, so came the flood. Crashing into the enemy, a wave to a beach, Both sides held firm preventing a breach. As time passed, more blood was spilled, They killed without mercy, feeling or guilt. Brutality continued, but one above all, Enduring the combat, while still standing tall. After a seeming eternity, the battle did end, Left were only the gallant, the captains among men. Devastation, ‘twas the order of morn, Lay about the survivors, among the grief and scorn Yet on this day, a hero was born, Revolution began that chaotic morn. The people would follow, whatever his lead, They found their saviour, ready to believe. Slowly, he collapses to his knees, Struggling every moment to simply breath. His opponent, slowly sidesteps around, Positioning himself perfectly on the ground. Gesturing to the crowd, calling for cheers, All do so, knowing the end is near. Amid all the ringing, the crowd in his head, His mind fades out and wanders again. Standing up tall, he looks at a man, Who holds a nation in the palm of his hand. This hero opposed him, holding great doubt, In several actions their leaders carried out. Face to face, it was becoming quite clear, This newborn hero was their up most fear. From the field of battle, he gained power and fame, With infinite success in their own war games. The people’s champion, of whom he was known, Sat opposite a king, at the edge of his thrown. Screams coming so loud, like thunder they roared, Standing there was the opponent, begging for more, Grabbing weapon from holster, the enemy readied, But the mind of the saviour was no longer steady. Flash of white followed by strokes of black, His state of mind sent flailing back. Of all things that a person holds dear, Freedom is always most sincere. Now he endures this hell on earth, With out retribution, without rebirth. A slave to his country, amusement to some, A soldier in a war never to be won. Each day, marching up stairs to a field, Surrounded by seats, stone of great yield. Each battle is fought at overwhelming odds, Each duel to the death, brings them applause. Fear never sinks in, death is too real, No one could remorse, not one could feel. The carnage unleashed is beyond humane, The minds of these warriors is far from sane. Forced to inflict pain, pain that holds no bounds Simply to appease all those around. Not by his choice, after all he’s a slave, Like so many others without a grave He is the Victim of power, oppression and greed, His name unremembered, erased by the lead. He is the example, of the revolutionary flare, Their liberties stripped, no freedoms to bare. His leaders, the ones whom he trust, Put fourth their own agenda of power and lust. But he stood alone, refused to obey, And now emprisoned and others look away. So after years of waking to this, After years of avoiding deaths fatal kiss. The finally blow is struck, the end has come, Gladiator to all, remembered by none.

I AM VERY OPEN-MINDED AND I'D HAVE TO SAY THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL

That's the first positive thing I've ever heard you say and I still don't think that it was sincere.