The Hot Gates
The battlefield is silent, yet
There is an intensity in the air.
We feel it in our bones.
This burden is ours to bear.
We are Spartans, unmoved by fear.
Each warrior stands proud, clutching his spear.
Its point is sharp; it makes a clear mark.
The mistakes we make we can erase — overall, a good start.
Each soldier is an artist,
A craftsman of death.
Flowing movements, precise strikes,
Not a moment to take a breath.
Each enemy is an obstacle,
A test not of our bodies, but our minds.
They make us recall our training,
They make their weaknesses difficult to find.
Our masters have become our ultimate foe.
Their betrayal was expected, yet still a dizzying blow.
The bell tolls. For some, a death knell.
I hope and pray that I did well.
I set my spear to the side.
I pause, breathe, and smile.
I know not what lies ahead, but
I know I will pass this final.
