The Knight
A lone knight slowly trudges across the snow-covered land
Shooting pain raced down his left arm, for nothing went as planned
Blood poured from a large gash on his leg that had expanded
Winning yet broken, he wished for a death that had felt grand
Approaching his stronghold, choking thick black smoke filled the air
Dancing across the Barbican were wild red orange flares
Realizing they marched not to war, but into a snare
Quickening his pace for there was not a moment to spare
Arriving to find nothing but death inside the fort’s walls
Wine colored land told of the violent fight for the fall
Fighting back tears, he wore each slain’s memory as a shawl
Vowing before God he will avenge the deaths of them all
Crashing loud noise informed the knight that he was not alone
Pushing aside the pain, he moved swiftly from stone to stone
Seeing his foe, drawing his sword, he soon would stand alone
Praying, he charged for the enemy’s woven fate was sewn
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