I saw a man who needed a war
who rode silently through the obsidian black
that appeared when I closed my eyes.
He rode horses silently,
lost in a place with no battle,
no trauma to inflict on one's self.
Why did my mind conjure
this abandoned warrior
who seemed alive, but lost?
The truth appears when he wants a battle,
deep beneath a terror-borne exterior--
when he wants to have a contest to win.
I've buried a war-like nature
so deep beneath who I am not
that when it appears it seems so strange.
No one wants to live in Hell,
except for a few unfortunates
destined for pain and loss.
But there is a coward above him
that pulls all the strings
and drags him through laughing streets.