The aging warrior strikes a pose,
Clad in his burnished bloodied bronze,
His face both fierce and comatose...
He holds in his hand a lethal sword,
The blade which cut and killed so long,
Back in the fabled days with the Horde...
The warrior's body is scarred and lean,
His smile, though, disappeared years ago,
Only a grimace remains to be seen...
In battle he grips the heavy sword,
His gritty muscles straining,
He raises the blade for a killing stroke,
To cleave the foes remaining...
He brings the steel edge crashing down,
In a moment of visceral splendor,
And sanity, like the crushed skull bleeds,
By the bloody boots of death's vendor...
In a much different place, a pale youth waits,
Reading, in the silo's control room,
Armed and waiting for the order to push,
The red bottom marked "Big Boom",
In the dim light the warrior officer sits,
She wears no armor, carries no sword,
And tries not to cry when the missile hits...
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