The Sword of Angels
As the noble warrior emerged from his shady rest
upon the sanguine arena, he moved forward
to encounter the villainous forces that lay siege to his home and kin.
Though imperfect in his rule, his sword knew no comparison between righteous and corrupt.
To his honor he clung against reason.
His vermillion cloak waved warning to his mark as he approached
his sword sheathed again and again in the comfortable flesh of his foes
his eyes shone sorrow.
And then, just then, the warrior turned upon the call of the mighty battle horn
before him was one known to be equal yet opposite in profession.
Found after the battle within the claret muck the spiritless warrior lay
his sword red with blood clasped in cold hands lay across his cuirass
his men-at-arms bore him upon their shoulders away from the carnage.
As the mist cleared on that early morn his likeness was seen upon the distant hill.
Men thought mad reported a figure akin to their fallen brother
with wings of the angels red as wine, his sword aflame lifted toward the sun.
As time passed into decade, the story cast into shadow,
soldiers sing tales of the crimson warrior, who fell only to rise again,
forced to walk the mist and lead those fallen in battle
for eternity.
