Valkryie Poem by Hal Caufield

The court room is your battle field.
The ceiling vaulted to the heavens,
The deep mahogany paneled walls,
The black leather trimmed furnishings,
All frame your prefect Teutonic grace.

Your golden curls bowed back,
Your piercing blue eyes intense,
Your black dress obviously concealing
The most exquisite feminine form.
You command this world.
Your blade, not a sharp sword,
But words, each chosen with adept skill.

And I, I sit in awe of the mastery
Of the Valkyie who chooses
Who lives or dies upon this field.