This soft bed was alone with me,
as you walked the rooms, ranting.
Stone echoed your words,
repeating in a dream of
discordant language in tones
of sound and fury.
Why must you always rave?
I’m in constant company of
your complaints. I haven’t slept
peacefully in a fortnight, and
your anger only increases in volume.
I haven’t seen you in so long,
and when I venture to complain,
the very sun will stop
to overshadow the moon.
You do not love me.
You told me this,
only as you rode away.
I believe it. You love only the glory
of bleeding men, know only the
honor of swords set against each other.
Restless for action, startled by softness,
even to me, you are not gentle.
I could foretell your ending,
god of war or warrior of God,
you will fall, felled to your own pride
and arrogant nature.