Your heart is a no-man’s land, and
you have fornicated, battle-ready,
with countless minds, The Art of War
alive in your apathetic stare;
a ghostly Sun Tzu in your shadow, and
its pages falling in chapters from your face

Yet, like a Viking, you roar,
axe in hand to slaughter dreams and cut ties;
no art, no honour, and just half the warrior
you claim to be – the septic engraver of
bloody runes and headstone eulogies

Norse winds carrying the poetry I write of you,
it’s pages never to reach your crimson eyes

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 27 May, 2017