Echoes of the night, and silence.

Few scenes I had in mind before going to sleep of man, his lonesome, his enemies, his weapons and his lost better half.

 

It happens every night, everywhere, almost to every man; something about the night, her words and silence when man is most broken and lonesome, an echo that awakens the rebel inside, when all around is dead.

 

The silence of the night takes that worried ragged heart of a warrior into the world of scars and wounds, after he sold his sword for peace, for food and for a home, all which he used to defend, leaving him unarmed, naked of all his weapons but an old sword, his fist and his words, he fights now all them dead faces of the dark, he now fights all what he killed, all those who sought peace, food and home, just like him, his mind is a battlefield, he kneels with his blooded Katana in hand; as rusty as his merciless heart, until she came and touched the remaining of his soul, a whisper in his ear "rise Samurai, defender of the East, rise and let go of your rusty sword, fight them ghosts with your words, for they are sword that never rusts."

 

And the silence of the night takes him along with sighs, filling his lung with toxic smoke, as he cleans the barrel of his old rifle, the one hung on the wall, the solid ragged heart of the soldier that used to beat to her foot steps, as the unwelcomed shadows hunt his home, after he sold his ammo for home, the one which he killed for a thousand soul, symbol of his freedom, freedom which many fought him for, his heart is a muddy bunker, he lays on the cold steel chair with no bullets to kill his lonesome, only wet gunpowder, as wet as his muddy heart, he read last of her letters, a bold line that said "rise Captain, defender of the west, rise and let go of you empty rifle, fight them not with gunpowder fight them not with swords, fight them ghosts with words, for they are the gunpowder that shall never go wet."

 

And the silence of the night takes the hollow hunted heart of the hunter, as he sharpens his knife in that empty hall, the knife which he has skinned many of lives for money and food, his heart echoes to her memory, hollow is his body as a graveyard and as full of death as the hall. Ghosts of those he deserted roam his home, as he sheathes his knife which took many lives in order for him to survive, souls of hundreds which there nature was to survive, his cold body is a dark forest as cold as the steel as cold as the room where he hangs a photo of her, next to a mounted bear head , he mumbles her last words; an advice to deal with species of his own "rise wild man, hunter of north, rise and let go of your sheathed knife, fight them ghosts with your words, for they are knives that are never sheathed."

  

And the silence of the night takes the deserted wandering heart of the Nomad into to the vast of lands, as he straightens his last bent arrow, as he fixes his broken bow he stands straight to her memory, his skin is dark and dry, dry as his heart, bent is his back like his bow, the bow that killed many of souls, for water, honor and the need to survive, tens of souls which have died for honor, same honor he was exiled for, deserted in the land of lost horizon he is, grains of thoughts roam his head, carried by wind of change accompanied by ghosts of men who left him under desert sun, and one thought storms his mind blowing all others away, as he covers his face with a piece of cloth the one she had made, like finding an oasis in heated desert her words he found, the words inked into his arm "rise Nomad, wanderer of Southern lands, rise and let go of your bow and arrow, fight them ghosts with your words, for they are bows that never break and arrows that never miss."

Author's Note

Reviews are welcome.

Reviews

[RainQueen]

"And the silence of the night takes the hollow hunted heart of the hunter"

This is the line that took my breath away. you have drawn this picture of the haunted soldier with angry charcoal strokes, impossible to look away. As foreign as this battlefield is to me, there is so much in this warrior's imagining that echoes the angst of the mundane.

Powerful write. Outstanding.

[Nyida Strong]

Everytime I'm told that writers are useless and that words are pointless, I remember how much power words truly have. They can merely disarm or strike a mortal blow. Words have power, they always have.

N. Strong

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed this tale in this poem. I wish I had dreams of chase and battle. I dream of paying bills and work. Great description create good vision. I like the places you took me in this poem. Thank you for the outstanding poetry.
Coyote

[SoulCrusader (Yas)]

Penetrates the heart....good job :)