Mercer's Poems
Fallen Warrior

Swollen, red knuckles, crumbling crippled
throb to a silent beat on tired sorrow fists.
The adrenaline prickled hairs catch the wind
like free wheat in golden, sunkissed fields. 
But all that kisses the bare skin of him, 
this panting, fatigued young warrior
is the howling, harsh, biting frost wind
and raindrops, like accursed heaven tears. 

His muscles buckle beneath the weight
of his enemies, ceaselessly advancing. 
Our warrior cries for his lost days; 
the invulnerable times of old; untouchable. 
Now wounds, like tributaries, carve his body
into a prostrate, river of blood and tears. 
His sore body is now but a headstone. 
A permanent tribute to the sadness of defeat.

Each colossal blow of His epic match, 
met with thunderous roars from high
as lightening flashed, and warriors clashed. 
Each meteoric punch and levered kick 
hit harder than stone, as two fought on. 
Cartilage cracked and sinew snapped 
and fist met face, and blood met light. 
No regard for each other’s feelings or health. 
But the winner can only be a loser 
when you fight with yourself.