Short Poem: Untitled

(Started working on this, but have grown too tired and sleepy. Please enjoy this draft.)

Inspired by: Re-adjustment

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He’d long imagined that glory in death—
Long he’d supposed that as all suns would set,
Light up the West in a matchless display,
Day into night would bring Honor, not shame—
He’d long imagined, but death is still death.

Lonely he bleeds, growing colder as night
Wraps the whole world in her moonless dark clouds.
Sleep he despises, for while still his light,
While beats his heart, still some strength left inside,
Bears he to see his own son standing tall.

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The son, his bloody knife in hand, stands tall,
the patricidal generation grown
into this lusty murderer, and walks,
his back now turned unto his sire’s death,
away into the dawn of his own tale.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jSvxE5eIUIQ