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The Battlefield of Life

Tags: life

A small poem about the everyday war of life

The day is dark and gloomy as I walk through the battlefield covered in blood. I look around on all the fallen warriors who have fought the battle of life. 
Warriors with nothing to show for their tireless fighting but their limbs 
being severed from their bodies from the sharpened swords of their enemies. 
I see young men that never had a chance to lead a full life lying in a mass of death. 
I continue on through the field of blood. 
I look up from the torn and battered bodies, I see an image of a warrior. 
The image becomes more defined as I approach it. 
The figure is of the Angel of Death in his blackened armor. 
Standing atop of a small hill of the fallen warriors' souls that he has taken that day. 
As I continue to approach the Warrior of Death I draw my sword and prepare for battle. 
The angel draws his jagged and bloody blade from its sheath of darkness. 
He starts to move towards me and swings his sword. 
His darkness misses me and it is a fatal error. 
I swing my sword and strike the Angel of Death to the ground. 
I have become victorious, and my life is to keep for another day. 
As his body hits the ground light breaks through the darkness. 
I then wake from the long and dark night.

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