With a blinded wind storm carrying
his back into another battle;
Pen and quill form yet another
sound off, the charge into the
stoic fore-front blazing a dreary
spill of the enemies taste;
Besting knights warding off the
night-til dusk they dissapear
an end to the fight is near;
He draws his mighty arm forward
like a thunderous weapon to
pound hundreds and more until
there is nothing;
A delightful symphonic balance
between the argonauts dream
of peace and the soul searchers
habit that ceases to be;
In this lifetime the war becomes
a terror and the -ism is the
reminder of what could have
been;
He attacked his last opponent
that refused to face-off, and
trampled all alone to graze
with the Goth;
Wherever, whenever-they beckoned
for him-it was usually the last
call-and he desired not to win;
Forever longing-the principle of
any virtue that mingle, with or
without the attack artist-
-from Hell.
 
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