Waterloo

 This 

is my Waterloo:

you, 

the farmhouse,

I, 

sick and 

so alone,

desperate 

to reach you. 

What screams 

you will hear 

before I surrender;

what blood 

will paint 

your fields.

And yet, 

I cannot retreat, 

cannot find 

a different hill 

to die on. 

This 

is my Waterloo:

you, 

the distant farmhouse.