The epaulettes shone brightly on olive green
His badges worn old but shinier than eyes of a new born
Echoes of rifles and battle cries clothed his gait
A wounded lion stalking as the coy little prey awaits
He lurks in the centres of great foliage
A great yellow corneal vision
His flustered heart ignoring his rationales admonition
Doused in the sweated thick skin of war
Looking desperately to add one last scar
A mast of nebulous light shatters his sight
It is as if even his lord is savouring every instance of his plight
Spitting in his begging hands
What does Almighty care of a mere mortal's plans
He breathes fire bright and blue
Time of essence he wastes few
He raises his brand to the skies
For his prey only end lies
And carves a coat of arms
From the ichor licked thorns
For mortals and immortals all shall fall tonight
Even ares himself could not best him in a fight