The Demise of Death

The gleaming warriors of Light advance Aflame with Life, their shields aglow with gold And lambent fire a glint from sword and lance. Their silver battle-axes flash and flourish, bold And brutal in mad massacre. The hordes Of Death are falling, black-plumed helmets split As skulls within explode. The scything swords Have fringed the banners with each rending slit. Death’s men have floundered, failed, Skewered by the jeweled lance that spears the brain, And reeves the heart, weak-shielded and ill-mailed… Infantries of Death are cruelly slain. The battlefield’s now sodden with the gore Of ebon warriors. Onyx helmets lie Trampled, some with heads within, before The gilded hooves that clatter, sanguine, by. Death’s flag with bone-white-face Is rags. His ink-hued armor plate is rent And shattered by Life’s spike-thorn mace. Death’s sword is sundered and his pike staff bent. And he himself lies maimed upon the moistened sand, His cypress standard in his gnarling hand Till tired black fingers spread…and let it fall.