He walks amongst the shadows of darkness, the stars his only guiding light
Aye He walks along the very edges of the night
He holds a blade of crimson red
Beneath him lie the scores of slain, the leagues of dead
His battle song be one of victory
Yet none could see his eyes and soul, filled with misery
Aye He walks forward and upwards upon a mountain of malice
Aye he drinks from a blood filled chalice
His deeds are done, the day is through
He did what he had to do
He fought the men, he did, laying waste to the land
He fought them with a beastly snarl and an upraised hand
He tore apart haulberk and helm, gauntlet and greave
Not a single soldier left standing, did he leave
Why did he fight endlessly on
In this darkness so bloody, with such incredible brawn
They could have his land, or his riches, but not his Lady Fair
They tried to spirit her away, upon an armoured mare
They tried to steal his Love, his heart
For that, and that alone, he tore those men apart
Now the warrior stands up upon the ragged, jagged hill
His blade is crimson red, his breathing, calm and still
He looks upon the dregs of dead
As he shakes his weary head
A tear begins to issue forth from his eye
As he howls his long and hollow war cry
He did not want to kill he did not want to fight
But no one would, or could, steal his Lady Fair, not even The Shadows Of The Night
YOU ARE READING
The Wolf And His Pen
PoetryEvery Wolf has a sensitive side, if you take the time to see it.
