The fire under my pen has left me for good.
Replaced by this lonely feeling
that every dragon has been slain,
and every damsel saved.
I count the days until
the last drop of venom
is spat in my direction.
A last ditch effort to take me with him.
Instead, he will leave us,
never to return again,
and I'll be left with
this unnerving feeling
of contentment.
I can take the dagger out
from underneath my pillow,
keep my doors unlocked
and move on.
But I'm a soldier.
My father brought me up
fighting at every turn.
I've lived off of
blood drawn and arms twisted,
unaware of any other life.
I woke up this morning,
and saw he wasn't there.
So I didn't write a poem
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