The rattling of his bones,
Enclosed in timeworn, calloused skin
Reminded him of past youth,
And his senseless exploits of sin.
Before he held a sword, and
The King’s emblem upon his breast
He was a poorly country boy,
Craving opulence to manifest.
Once held up high, now faceless,
Wandering aimlessly alone
Fighting an aging body,
He greets each movement with a groan.
He has become a sellsword,
Consumed by limitless treasures
Turning on several Kingdoms,
To simply engulf life’s pleasures.
Fleeting Kingdoms, far and wide,
Embracing others is no choice
Instead he passes by them,
Until hearing her velvet voice.
Sword-sharp eyelashes, sweeping
Across scars underneath her eyes
Loving her could mean one thing,
The ending, his one true demise.
Years within this land alone,
Longstanding without an embrace
Changed sudden with this woman,
Dressed head-to-toe in white lace.
The sellsword reaches for her,
Grasping her soft, delicate hand
Asking her to come with him,
And venture deep into the land.
‘I will come with you,’ she says,
Placing her hand against his cheek
‘Will you not respond?’ she asks,
He grunts, unable to speak.
Yet, when he opens his mouth,
She is surprised with his response
For he is a closed-off man,
Often with fearless nonchalance.
‘I am a lonely sellsword,
Getting old and becoming grey
But I vow to keep you safe,
From uncertainties of today.’