A Warrior's Soul

       A lust for life will keep him alive and make him eternal, regardless of the blows from the drifting pain inside. The boy he was, was misunderstood, while the philosophical old man is only ignored. Skeletons will attack with many different masks as ignorance defends the sheltered. They wallow in their shelters.

       Yesterday, one warrior wore long hair. A dinner's table reflection assured him he would have it again. The provider, a kind and simple man asks, "Why would you choose to be perceived (by these looks), a space cadet?"
       "I just want to be me, as I wish to be free," he answered honestly, knowing he is already a real space man.

       Before he was infected with his cancer he fought for his rights. Fought for himself. Fought in the shadows. Beating the infection has earned him his right; without need for justification.

       Born and bred a warrior's soul, he had no choice but to take the beatings of life and pacify a bleeding heart. Forever, he bears the war band upon his arm, it is uneraseable. It brought him through the battles that he fought in his name. He wore the warrior's Mohawk ponytail, sides shaved like a bald eagle. Scalped in the life threatening battles; he still remains.

       A child warrior never understood the fight but he fought for the father. Warrior children sometimes have clouded visions. Rage helped him survive when nothing else was there. The same rage he runs from; the young boy was scared. When the child warrior fought, they called him a savage. They never saw the reflection of themselves or the need for attention. He was the invisible warrior hiding amongst the other gray shadows.

       He is the spaceman; Warrior Soul. He can't find his space of the ship. No more drifting, he doesn't wish to get lost. Still invisible, he is hurting. Still the same, he is different. Walking by the tides he feels the yesterdays remain. In love with the sea, the rush of the ride. He loves the beauty and respects the innocent. The ignorant still attack, however; he grows tired. So he's alone, better than being another clone; he is his home. They will never beat him, even if they kill, he has the warrior's soul.

       There is now the warrior man. Scalped, he wears the warrior's head band. Once looked upon as the savage,  now perceived as the spaceman. He doesn't need any fans. They are the clones, he is his own man. A warrior must be alone, he would be killed if they were let inside. His weapon is suggestion, reading between the lines teaches a valuable lesson.

       Alone, he travels down the path barefoot, friend to the animals also ignored. Looking at the tides, he passes the wolves who howl in respect. He sheds a tear, the warrior soul ... a breed of depth diminishing rapidly. Wolves, dying in pacts, are selfishly murdered by the sheltered society.

       True warriors avoid battles if they can. They never start the fight and usually take unnecessary blows. Even when they've lost, they remain standing with their pride. The warrior can only ensure so much, so stop fighting. He can only listen to so much, so stop lying. The warrior cannot be a clone, so let him be himself. Stop holding his head below the water, he'll drown himself before too long. Stop telling him how to live his life, he's never hurt you. He knows far more than you will ever learn, stop teaching him to be narrow minded. Don't ever say you understand; you've never seen his moccasins, so it's impossible to imagine walking in them. Realize the boundaries; admit you know nothing. Get glasses if you're frigging blind. You're pathetic if you hurt him, the warrior only defends himself. He is only himself - that's all he know how to be; he's all he's got. He is the spaceman because there is so much depth.

       Decadence with the sheltered predators will eventually kill the warrior man. However the warrior's soul will always live. The day a warrior dies and his soul isn't passed on; is the eve of destruction. A day. Armageddon will devour the world if the soul is lost.