On the far coast of the ocean of sand,
Lies a city of dust, in a forsaken land.
With blasted walls, and flattened towers,
Toppled defenses and empty bowers.
And in the middle of this ruin stands a man.

He stands amid these blasted ruins
Gazing across the shifting dunes.
His armour shining in the sun.
His sword prepared to fight no one
As no one there has answered the warrior’s call.

He walks along with measured stride,
His every motion a show of pride.
His banner aloft in the wind so brisk,
Prepared as always to take the risk,
Waiting for someone to answer the warrior’s call.

He steps silently over a pile of bone,
Not even seeing them as his own.
A last hopeless example of a forgotten way,
A dark, lonely shadow of a by gone day,
Cursed forever to wait on the warrior’s call

© 2000 By Dave Anhorn
Poetry