The Old Soldier.

Once upon a time I said what was to be,
Between you, and me,
It was always an argument about what was real,
Whether anyone feels what they say they feel,

Clever rhetoric on occasion left me questioning,
Ever so briefly, before wisdom interjected,
And on occasion, I would try to be clever,
But I should have known better,

The empty hand grabs the upper rung,
Before the one holding a heart in its clenched fist,
So every salient point is a bitter victory,
And Pyrrhus defeats the Romans again,

Crossed the Alps as Hannibal did,
Fearsome Oliphaunts in tow,
Not a bit of difference made,
To one who never sees them so,

After the devastation is complete,
Only a single, ridiculous portrait is left,
I can barely see it, through tears and exhaustion,
I’ve been fighting this losing battle so long,
Throwing myself at the windmills again,
I hear your voice whistle through the meadow,
Telling me there never were any giants,

So why is this chestplate so dented and scuffed?
And underneath flesh appears battered and bruised?
And why was that bravery never enough,
Was it only for thrills that effort was used?

One more victory might be the end of me,
I could only do this sort of thing so long,
You know more than any, I would imagine,
Just how much I hate being wrong.

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