Along with terror, there sweeps over the warrior
in a seething tide of blood red waves, ecstasy.
And each head is carefully adorned
after it is put atop the pike, looked at
like long lost pieces of childhood gone for good;
kissed by some on drunken, singy nights.
Weapons are hung by the fire with care, when asked
old salutes brought out as dusty collections
for gawkers in a museum of single-hearted beasts.
Their minds discarded, their wings too old to hold weight,
and the ecstasy now is in the promise of death.