Highlander, Lowlander

Your eyes flicker, and I turn blind.
Your voice falters, and I become speechless.
I'm the chameleon on that tartan soul of yours
That keeps
Changing colours and
Patterns.

I (comically enough) thus explode more often than I should,
Rags of me lying about all over the place,
Down to the bottomless pit of impossible
(though sometimes longed-for)
Resentment.

This you know fully well.
Do you?

I can already hear the bagpipes playing, in the distance,
Your war cry still echoing across the moors.
Ten-year old Malt shall not redeem
The wretchedness of my position.

Serving you, with a sword I am
Still forging ...