The Aftermath Of Battle

The deathly deed was done,

The battle had been won,

A little toddler walked among the corpses,

Unknowingly, in regards to why the people were all not ‘walkers’,

Spears lay next to the bodies, the sharp tips red,

The toddler looked at the sleeping people, “Why were they not in bed?”,

His father walked up and stood next to the little toddler on the misty Moore,

The toddler looked up at his pallid face, his big inquisitive eyes searching his father for recognition,

“These men were on a mission,”

The father told the little son, who was playing with a blood-splattered mace he had found next to a fallen soldier,

An archer, both his legs broken,

Struggled to his bow and arrow, to take his final sick token,

He fired one, then two arrows,

And knew his last token had been won.

The sound of a high whistle came to the toddler’s ear,

The sickly sweet sound of his death was near,

He turned, and the long pointed stick struck him under the chin, his head arched back,

And there he fell.

The father, turned to look at his son’s body, when an arrow hit his chest,

He fell to his knees, his eyes glistening with tears in the mist,

He swung out at the heavens with his fist,

And missed.