In The Midst of Fury

Hordes to my left,
Battalions to my right,
Rushing to the point of meeting
Eager for the fight.
At that central point
I sit in calm repose,
Feeling that my story just might
Be drawing to a close.
No shield, no sword or weapon
I have to save my life,
Nor armor nor wall nor hill
Own I, to divert this strife.
Should I dare to stand
And make known my place,
Doubtless shall my story end
By spear, or sword, or mace.
It's not death I fear.
I have longed for it before.
It is, rather, that I wish not
My end be one of gore.
How, then, came I here
To a place where men will die?
It is to here that I was banished
Because I chose to try.
A tale, a book so powerful
That hardest hearts would weep...
Such a tale I wrote
That, others, hope would keep.
In this place, so beautiful,
Despite descending doom,
I chose to write the book
That would shed light on the gloom.
I sit here now, where forces
Will so soon with fury meet.
How will I survive it
While I can yet stand on my feet?
This ink, this quill, this parchment-
These weapons that I wield-
Can create the armor that will
These embattled souls shield.
By my words here written,
And the heart from whence they come,
Have lives and hearts been let to live
That helps them reach their sum.
The horns and trumpets blaring.
Opponents yards away.
I step out from my hiding place
And speak one soft word,
"Stay."

beatingheart2