Honorable Mention in the Literary Contest.

The static fades away.
The concerto starts.
The sensations it imparts
As the music begins to play:
  
A soldier slowly steps into view,
Strapping on his shining armor,
As the somber horns sing, only two,
At first, but soon far more.
  
The bright knight files in with his troops,
As the horns all join the tune,
And sound the strong but steady loops
Of the war march in sunny June.
  
The cadence begins to slow and soften.
The mood turns heavy and deathly fearful
As a soldier's does so often
When he imagines his widow tearful
  
And stares at Death's spears and swords.
A fearful moan escapes his heart,
But his courage still pushes him forwards,
While the baritone and trumpet play their part.
  
The strings begin a unified measure,
While archers notch their bows,
Then flurry about, to the ear's great pleasure,
To pierce the sky with dark arrows.
  
There is a violent clash of symbols and mallet,
of broadswords smashing shields.
The conductor reddens his vibrant pallet
To color the violent battlefield.

 
The knight regroups with his thinned band,
Struggling through wounds in the June heat,
Trying to retreat to their homeland
With a frantic, decrescendo-ed beat.
  
Into the forest where they can hide.
Almost to the safety of tall trees.
The trombone plays close upon its slide,
But strings bring them to their knees.
  
Bowstrings cease their volleyed sound.
Woodblocks hearken a mounted knight
Spurred hooves quickly pound
Toward the remnants of the fight.
  
The lone bright knight survives the arrows,
And stands with the mighty trumpet's song,
But one woodblock becomes many rows,
So the trumpet is killed before long.
  
 
The percussion dwindles,
but the fire in the air
still glows there
from what, in me, it kindles.