The Luckiest of the Unlucky

The Luckiest of the unlucky

With hand a tremble
She dipped her quill of love into the crimson ink of her heart,
sating its hollow

Her emotions flowed across the parchment
A profession of love she penned
A letter of promise to her departed
Whom she could not follow

All the night before she had lain with him
Now, alone in the coolness of her lonliness
His warmth was sorrowfully missed

Before the morning's awakening
She had placed her written word into his vest
The memory left her weeping of the last time
they kissed

With hand a tremble
He unfolded the reason he had drawn his sword
His mind trying to recall the taste of her lips
or the feel of her hair

His breath now a wane, his body cooling
to a chill
The sounds of war faded as he lay
upon the damp soil
Steam from the fallen now rising as one
with the misty morning air

The once red letters she had written
were only a blur to him
But he needed not to see them
He knew by heart what they said

A smile found him as his eyes softly closed
His last thought, like her memory,
drifted from him
I'll be the luckiest of the unlucky
lying among the dead