#2,463 Guardsman

I stand in my vacant citadel
[few held weapons] – Sheer
faces as greasy ramparts [a
vertical slide of rainwater &
clinging lichens] – below us
a fetid moat – a sweat-pool
added to by strung tears [&
filled fast] – Our sick master
commands from his tower –
his auld voice has softened
over time – less bellowings –
less said aloud – We’ll whet
our blades with oil & stone
to a finite edge – enough to
cut into armour & flesh – in
my grip a killer’s quick tool
of swinging & thrusts – Kill –
or be – beyond these walls