Life destroys, decimates, dismembers, disavows.
I mortally fear time.
It scathes, scalps, scythes and seethes.
While you spent your life getting a life, I spent mine, pissing it away.
And now I stand (or sit, mostly), quarter of half the man I used to be.
And that vision comes back: of the knight on a battlefield;
Carnage all around, bodies littered, blood splattered.
The knight stands alone and as the mist lifts, he looks around.
Has he won? If he is standing, he must have.
Except, all the dead are his. His own. His people.
Pyrrhic, pyrrhic, pyrrhic.
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