Spare Me Your Angry Eyes

Spare me your angry eyes,
those frustrated falcons that hunt at sea,
that prey only on shallow ends
with larger intents ignored at deep.

Spare me your angry eyes,
the battalions send forth a scout,
who moves alone, surveys the land,
he alone knows the sacrifice.

The scout returns and tells of land,
with terrains of traps and valleys and cliffs,
he guides the way, he hopes for home,
the men mistrust him, and send him away.

Spare me your angry eyes,
a fork in the forest leads east and west,
a traveller stands, long and lost,
which path should he trod upon.

The eastern path leads to a sword,
a weapon so large and weary to wield.
He would guard the forest and her dwellers,
but his arms would grow weak, and there he will die.

The western path leads to Ceasars Palace,
a glowing place of lights and riches
there he may go and fold for free,
exchange what he has for a hand untamed.

Spare me your angry eyes,
those sorcerers beads of magic and spells,
that make salt lose her flavor and extinguish all light,
that turn warriors to traitors and beloveds to demons.

Joe