who knows me?

who knows me?
none but the Maker of the wind

the same wind which carries
my sins and sorrows across
the plains of mortal judges
and false prophets –
to the place where He hides 

I was not formed to wear flowing robes,
or 
make show of a piety I do not possess;
a different mantle fell upon these shoulders,
one not of a maiden meek or mild-mannered

born a warrior-in-waiting,
initiated by love’s dirty hands

it is the warrior’s tunic that adorns this flesh

I do not enter Temples made of stone;
for there is blood on my hands
and a swiftness in my sword

I’ve no intent to falsify my account,
for I am not ashamed of my calling

for me, there would be no victory in a
life of hypocrisy or a hollow hallelujah

when no stone remains upon another,
I will be found on the battlefield –
in victory or in death

and if there be, by chance, a nobility
I might lay claim to, it is this –
my blade has never drawn first blood

even so, the earth will surely testify that
my sins are mingled with the blood of those
who did

and still I fight, unashamed, before the eyes of man
and in the winds of God

yes, I will fight, unto death,
those who would kill innocence
or slaughter virtue with their
predatory ways, venomous lies,
and murderous hate

I will not wear the cloak of false humility;
for the weight of such dulls my blade
and leads to the death of reason:
and then to the death of truth

who knows me?
the One who made me

from Him I do not attempt to hide

after all, where would I go that
His wind could not reach and
strip away such false pride?

no, I will live as a warrior,
and when I die let the winds carry me
to Him who hides,

for my reward or reckoning


While the words seemed poetic as they flew from my soul, they are the testimony of my life. I make no apology for following the way of the warrior, for that is the hand I was given. It is the hand I will play and play to best of my ability.

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