You can’t touch him,
for he dug out his heart
with a spork.
He threw it in a box,
and swallowed the key.
He tenderly hid the casket, in the deepest bowls of the Sea.
He has no heart, no compassion for his enemies.
He is the train, who charges in one direction.
He is the Mountain, you can not move.
One who has suffered and survived.
He is the one who whispers to ghosts and ghouls.
When he speaks, his will is done.
The very Gods them selves, dine at his table.
They don’t bother with emissaries.
He makes fame and glory look easy.
be it in war or love, he wins.
The one I admire,