The warrior fights. Forgets his feelings.
Strength and might. His centrally focused mind.
Victories won and every kingdom saved.
All to take her hand. A waft of nothing.
Stories will be told of his deeds and traits.
Her hand will never fold. Such dire straits.
Can’t place a ring. Another hand holds tight.
Prancing through fields of merry time and cheer.
Accomplishments gather dust on the shelf.
An officer, gentleman, respected.
Unseen in countless battles he must fight.
Can’t reach the ceiling. Too far. Made of glass.
Just like her slipper the prince found and stole.
A way to her heart through smiles and joy.
Nothing like what’s shared through scars and bloodshed.
The warrior grows stronger and alone.
Invincible to those he must now fight.
Chasing the demons who scream at his back.
He can’t turn around. His Minotaur’s maze.
Someone to save, or let it be himself.
A rider in cloak and dagger comes near.
“Come with me.” The rider says nothing more.
The warrior vanishes. Rises new.
Pray be his faithful, to not meet his rage.
The feast of the haunted. It is all done.