Centurion

Although It caught him off guard, he grew to
Enjoy It's company as each day flew
Past, rolling into weeks and months and years.
Eventually he forgot all his fears.

Until the day It left him all alone,
Leaving him a hollow sack of old bone
As the reminder of their happy times.
He hardened then, amongst the winter climes;

Swore never to look for It in the stars.
Instead he focused on the moon, and Mars:
His madness fuelled high tides of rage,
Which wax and wane as the orbs gauge.

Fast forward now, and he sits close to death.
Five score of ages see him lose his breath;
Then It returned before his final day.
"What could 'It' be?"," I hear you say.

'It' is the confidence bred in men's hearts
That they are worth their weight in bloody salt.
For when It left him, he was ripped apart
But this old man regained It after all.