My sword has tasted blood
for causes of variable worth.
My blood has tasted battle.
My flesh has tasted metal
for men of dubious credentials.
My mettle has been tested.
I am only the latest in a long line of recruits
in ragged step with our forebears,
and my blood seethes with their fury.
Their battles rage within me.
The knowledge of their wars
My blood mocks me for a mercenary,
for who else have I served
if not the thieves of my freedom?
My marrow is sick of my service.
I bear my aging wounds resignedly,
but I will wear their coin no more.