His body was a battlefield
With an unconquerable soul
Made of fire that burned
With the same embers that fueled
The flames in his eyes.
His mind were the attackers
Whose wicked deceptions
Only achieved an eternal
Suffering as they threw themselves
Into the heat of his weakened optimism;
The one weapon in his arsenal made blunt
By his vulnerabilities and excessive amount of passions
That his mind tried to take advantage of.
He was scarred by the conflict
Yet his wounds only bled light,
And with it, he illuminated
The very words he wrote
And exhaled adventure
As he spoke love to all who needed
A cure from the darkness in their own body.