By TLB Contributor: Ken LaRive
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The Warrior
He sold his heart that bore his dead,
And took the hard road where it led.
Riddles of truth beneath his curse,
Soon became his universe.
Glory carved him sick with fear,
Found him turn with caustic tears.
Naked, his scars are all he’d known,
As on the field he bled alone.
Bent and sure he wielded pain,
Wove his will with gilded chain.
Presumed the advantage in a brawl,
A roan that abandoned one and all.
Stood for nothing but his own,
Lord in his kingdom of barren throne.
Melodious the cries, in a mind turned cold,
Paid with blood, dark gems and gold.
All life was a weapon for his own game,
Found pleasure in hurting wherever it came.
Made mockery of law on wasted breath,
And held in his hand the workings of death.
But alas there came forth a measure of fate,
Cyclic it rose and gathered in shape.
An action of righteousness greater then he,
That struck him in spite to his very knees.
His head is pushed back from the bars of his cage,
A monster at bay with a smoldering rage.
Balanced, subdued, and caught on a wire,
A black angel that burns in his own fire.
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It’s a simple but beautiful metaphor. Our soul is likened to an uncut diamond, pure, perfect, and unrealized. Each learned experience cleaves a facet on its face, and leaves it changed forever. Through this facet, this clear window, new light, new questions and ideas take shape and form. This process is our reason for being…
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