His banner and flag though tattered and frayed,
Still flapped from the tip of his lance,
He’d been through a lot and emerged unscathed,
Testament it’d not been by chance,

Slow walk through the burg his horse set a pace,
His manner unhurried, unrushed,
Citizens fell out to see this man’s face,
And lasses with faces all flushed,

Alas, they were disappointed to see,
A glint of an eye in his helm,
No more to discern, his visage would be,
Hidden all behind his armed realm,

More so they would be saddened if then they,
Glimpsed what those eyes had themselves seen,
Horrors untold, but altering, some say,
Him not to be who he had been,

Changed to his core his stature was still fixed,
His place in society raised,
Compassionate reactions all but nixed,
His demeanor remained unphased,

So to himself his emotions were kept,
Within the bright, steely facade,
The only evidence those eyes had wept,
Might seem insignificant, odd,

But inside his helm, between the eye slits,
His visor is stained with some rust,
Here’s his release and here all his pain sits,
Scars of his emotional thrust,

tags: poetry  

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