Your breath across the desert of my skin
My hair as delicate as silken spears
Caused now to stand on end and wait
To quiver with the scrape of your breath;
Your sighs that raise the dead
Hairs from the pores which pit my flesh:
Just so they stood in wait for Fate to claim
Their skins, although their souls defied the doom.
Three Hundred strong in number, might, and death;
Three Endless strong in courage, peril, zest.
Like raindrops flung into a churning sea
There cast by bout of some unholy gale,
Their foe did fall, and they with them;
A thousand tears of blood from corpses’ eyes,
And yet the Thespians spat at Death once he came,
So brave, and yet He stilled their breaths B.C.;
Returning on the shield rather than with it,
Supposing there was one alive to care—
A gargoyle of a man betrayed them, forgetting
Lament in Sparta means the ring of steel.
I tremble now within your tightening arms.
The whisper of a two-faced Persephone is not
Should not—be enough to kidnap you
Away from me; I will not let him take you too:
We will defend our Thermopylae here.
"Angreek87"
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