The Warrior and The Poet

[ThePoet]

The sun outside the pub was bearing down, as hot as hell.

The faded shutters had the windows covered fairly well;

inside it was cooler than the sun would have you think.

The time was only twelve o'clock as two men sat to drink.

One had scars upon his face, one of his eyes was blind;

the other had the subtle scars that weigh upon the mind.

One was drinking simply just to let his body rest;

the other drank and drank. He wanted only to forget.

No one else was present and the barman was unpleasant.

The larger man with scars passed the lighter when requested.

This is the beginning of the story as we know it:

the meeting of the men we'll call the Warrior and the Poet.

 

The Poet took the lighter and ignited not a cigarette.

He lit a second stick and passed the first before he'd hit it yet.

The Warrior was quick in his acceptance of the gesture:

The smell of sinsemilla seemed to make his worries lesser.

He hadn't had a smoke in close to near eleven months.

He'd been away at war and under watch of commandants.

The Poet didn't need a thanks for this accommodation:

it was almost just as long since he had shared a conversation.

 

The strangers got to talking. The strangest part was this:

they had a deep affinity, though different lives they lived.

Something common, something kindred, lingered in between them.

Words came unencouraged when the men began to speak them.

Both had some to say; the flow of dialogue was even.

The sun began to wane as people came in for the evening.

Completely unaware, the two continued with their talk.

It wasn't long before the conversation turned to war.

 

The Warrior had fought in every fight for fifty years.

Memories were missing and the most won't disappear.

He seemed so very tortured that the Poet sat and listened.

The soldier's crippled eye, it couldn't blink the tear that glistened.

The man from out of war was much embittered, his hand was missing

digits and the nerves were burnt; it fumbled and it jittered.

He'd battled many men through an abundance of atrocities

but not a horror humbled him the way that Agent Orange seemed.

Nearly every country that was nearly overthrown.

The Warrior protected them with every broken bone.

With every severed finger, damaged limb and drop of sweat,

to every injured infant innocent he can't forget.

All the pain he'd lived with, he wished to get it out

and trade it for the little things he'd learned to live without.

 

That's about the point the Warrior felt he'd said enough.

The Poet started talking; conversation turned to love.

He spoke with such an eloquence it's obvious he cared

for an elegant enchantress, the life of whom he'd shared.

He mentioned how they married young: she had become his wife.

Near eleven months ago was when his woman died.

The Warrior, through all his sacrifice, had never loved.

He'd never had a single thing to hold except a gun.

For all the pain he'd been through, he had never felt the way

The words of such a humble Poet made him feel that day.

The loneliness and sense of loss in both his eyes apparent,

the first time he had spoke about his loss since it had happened.

Guilt had overwhelmed him to the point it had him filled up.

It drove him near insane because he drove the car that killed her.

In a moment, everything he had had disappeared.

He wished it had been him instead: he'd wished it for a year,

and every minute filled with tears had been a battle since then.

He didn't need a war for him to fight for his existence.

 

"The trick of it is letting go. You start by knowing how."

The night by now was getting old. The bar was closing down.

Before he had the chance to share, they had to say goodbye.

The man from out of war farewelled the man without a wife.

[PizzaOnARoof]

Eh, keep your day job pal

[ThePoet]

Eh, keep your day job pal

Edgy, guy. We're all impressed.

[JustinAmurl]

I am so glad you started this thread Much easier for me to keep track of things here than trying to keep up with a zillion little pieces of paper where I scribble your recommendations.

 

PS - I also loved The Erotic Etudes

[Guest _BabyKitty_]

Beautiful!

[ThePoet]

Beautiful!

Thank you much. I wrote this fifteen years ago, so it's funny to look back at it now