To A Fellow Mercenary

I write this for my fellow mercenary. Yes, the same one who would go in to the brush with a gun, a knife (the one he probably got stopped at Customs at for), a pen, and a book. To use a cliche, a rebel without a cause. We were born in the wrong time, mon ami....

Written In Blood

to Zeitgeist

Flint sparks, conflict within its own right

honing an instrument,

kinda like death in its own right

But its left like 

where the Sun sets

because it does nothin' but spill regret,

and when its right again,

remnants of what was scorch the eye.

Ink splatters, conflict within its own right;

thoughts of an instrument

deadly in their own right,

but their left like

where the Sun sets,

'cause is the ink mightier than the blood thats spilt?

When its all right again,

Tell of the hue of the fields in the sunset

and recognize the path the warrior has chosen.

-Illipsis