The Warrior

A song, he sang, of War’s Cry,

As he trampled over Ichor-Grounds.

Rising from the ashes, dry

Carving a path with Hell’s Hounds.

The Torch he held of Helios flames,

High above the Mortal gaze,

Over Men and Maids, Dukes and Dames,

Setting alive the Infernal blaze.

A Blade of Stars, dripped, unsheathed,

Drops of Life, hit the Grave.

Shedding the final tears, as it breathed

And sighed when the last Beat left the Brave.

An amour he wore, of Silver flood,

And a cloak of Midnight Light,

Bleeding mere Royal blood,

Anchoring deadly Fright.

Many a prey, for his Judas Kiss,

And lured beneath a lover’s mask.

To fall not in Agony’s Bliss

Never a chance to wait, to ask.

A Game, he plays, the Broken Warrior,

Moving pieces over the Cursed Board,

For he was the Angel’s Savior.

His only companion, his Crystal Sword.