Final Showdown

A figure stands sentry bathed in moonlight,

It’s a crescent moon;

So the light is not as bright as on some nights,

Frozen marshes span out to either side of him,

With piercing winds whipping and buffeting what little clothing he has on,

Leaving bare skin numb,

Pain follows,

As the cold absorbs into flesh,

Beginning from feet and head,

In an inexorable journey,

To meet in the middle;

A pincer movement,

Bringing terminal decline to the host at reunion,

What spell is this sentry under,

To permit this grim inevitability?

Perhaps, nothing;

Perhaps, everything;

For, journey’s end is always ugly,

And it is your character that denotes,

How you will face the final showdown.