How do you speak to a dream?
In what manner of speech do you address breathtaking beauty?
Must you ride in upon a gallant steed avenging the wrongs done unto the innocent by wicked men?
Must thy armor be without ding or dent?
Polished to perfection?
Are such things only for those born to nobility?
Is there no room for a pauper in such tales?
What of those who's birthright is earth?
Of water and air?
Who's dowries are void of rubies and gold?
What of those who's armor is worn with the struggle of conflict?
For those of us who wear the weight of war upon our very souls?
Are we not noble in our actions? Are we less than valiant?
Is there not honor in our fight?
There are no gallant steeds for my kind.
No. We wage our battles in the mud and muck.
Mere numbers to be thrown at the enemy like so many worthless stones.
Scar tissue hearts.
Death revisits our nightly dreams.
Remorse greets us every morn.
The sacrifices made offer broken men no solace.
Society has no place for our burdens.
We are left to wander desolate landscapes forced from life.
They demand the freedom.
But shun the sight of its price.