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- 06/29/2011 10:28 pm
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- 07/22/2006
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- Texas
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- Writer
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About
from the pieces a battle is born
not born of honor but raised from scorn.
When did that hero's resolve waver?
And bring darkness into favor
and come from it, a fetal dance
one of chance
with blades bent
and gashes rent.
Red and black, blue and white
these colors clash at the start of this night.
As men lay dieing, their hopes slain
and raised from it, an mortal pain
Then from the gutter a young voice is heard
A boy stands out, as small as a bird
though his hands shook, and they did shiver
a certain hope it did deliver
Although most answers were resolved
One problem still remained unsolved
How to scathe the beats hide
and not become like those who died
Then the moon glowed a pale blue
as the small boy ran this beast through
but by the next day the boy was gone
meant to live his days as only a pawn.
I was the first to know
On a cold winter's first snow
when I was given the blade that ran the beast through
on that fateful day when the moon was blue
ans the story I did write
of the day when he won his fight
though this man is dead and gone
I made sure his story will live forever on
Thanks to for Galaxy_Key drawing this
I colored it on the computer
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I've lost all faith in the human race
no body is crossing that finish line
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