A man sits in a tavern alone with a deep stare.
A tankard in his hand tipped back in a creeky chair.
There is a dark and meaningful gleem to his eyes.
So would say the look means everday he crawls into the ale and dies.
That part is not true he is not even close to dead.
There in his play a thousand whirling images in his head.
Hes a old soldier who remembers the battles and wars well.
The many fields of death, trenches of strife, up to the very fortress of hell.
He drinks not to die and to be lost but to mask his pain.
He drinks to remember, he drinks forget, the only way to stay sane.
The scars of body, mind and soul tell of many battles old.
His body remembers the days of lusty youth when he was still fresh and bold.
It was not the mess of battles and war that scarred him but just one fateful day.
If you buy him a ale he might just say what terrible price he and his friends had to pay.
The memory rises in his face like a freshly dug grave already with a marker above it.
As he takes