he rode past the village watch post
dejection etched in every line
body almost
slouched supine
across his mount's neck
clothed in powdered dust
portrait of a living wreck
bloodied sword turned the colour of rust
returning to his estate
to his family and wife
his devoted mate
his former style of life
laughter did not disguise
that bleak despair
in his victor's eyes
that was never there
before
the answered call
to go to war
he sees it all
each long day
craves for release
wants it to go away
prays for return of peace
they found him too late
with his own blade
he had sealed his fate
his own choice made
they mourned him in his lands
on his funeral wake
kissed the widow's hands
and drank his health for old time's sake
and the ruler drank his fill
loudly yelled for more
his own mind still
tallying the spoils of war
eying the figure small
and dark in her widow's weeds
appraising the chances if at all
of possibly sating his other needs
because he is strong
to the victor all he seeks
earning his rightful place among
the spineless and the meek
he perhaps will take
her and more
for tradition sake
the droite de seigneur
