The dreaded sands of the barren desert,
Solid and steadfast, indifferent to time;
Traversed seldom, so minimal the comfort;
Audience on this day to a soldier in grime.

He trod forth over sands undulating,
Away from the outlandish depiction–
Heavy with guilt, alone in the setting–
Along a crossroads, devoid of gumption.

The evil demons of war gnawed at him,
For a survivor feeds on gory memory;
The fate of his brethren–morosely grim–
Did crush his soul for long eternity.

Martyrs of the battle looked down in shame
As a recreant ran from his set fate;
Every stride away so blemished his name,
A lone shadow he strode–an apostate.

Soul conflicted, loitering on the edge–
An abyss that dark confounded him over;
Disheveled within, though he fought sans pledge,
A plague, grotesque, devoured all power.

Pale silhouette formed in the morning sun–
Resilient still; had death scented his trail?
Visions so faded, and then there were none;
No respite here, he was flat–spent and frail.

The perpetual calm rendered him hopeless,
Creatures of prey did circle overhead;
No fancy wounds, no loving last caress,
Just a brutal demise on a dire spread.

No grace; no salvation; just unsought pain–
Justice of the lords isn’t perpetually fair;
Gone a traitor, besmirched with a stain;
Gone his honor, vaporized in the glare.


– Arnav

About Arnav Walvekar

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