War

Every story I've ever been told has held a spot in my life, 

The goodest of hero's and foulest of foes did share with me the night. 

I might have believed quite more than I should from these stories, 

That I had been told. 

But some of the burden from closing the page was reaped- 

so I could have sowed. 

I read from a book that was tattered and worn, 

Though had been a grand Jamorie, 

Of a hero with metals who turned back to home, 

Though smiles from him were unseen. 

His family did cry and embraced him lots more, 

While the story did come to an end. 

And his rank was quite high though they boosted it gain, 

While the nightmares began to transcend. 

At the end of the book on the very last page a question formed out in his head, 

He asked “What does it mean to have won a grand prize- 

for the deeds that I can't help but dread?” 

And he thought this once more as he wracked on brain, 

But reluctantly settled in bed. 

For the tears then did fall and his praise shook his core, 

Finally, 

“It was murder,” he said.