|Posted on September 11, 2011 at 11:30 PM|
It moves as one across the red sands,
Its heart—a drum—o’er broken lands,
Hammering life from rock and heather,
A metal beast of lance and leather.
It shimmers and groans in the dawn light,
Skulls of wolves baying for a fight,
Woven plumage snatched by morning breeze.
One final foe left, to bend the knees.
The white keep stands firm, poised for the fray.
But like a pincer, ensnaring its prey,
The beast looms up, coiling its wings.
A white sword, in a garden of sins.
The host unfolds like an iron rose,
Thorns gleaming to the chanting of crows.
It locks its horns against chiselled plate,
Twisting and lashing the armoured gate.
The white keep growls back, spraying the night,
Piercing the beast; its wrath alight.
A thousand shards of defiance,
That could not split that dark alliance.
For the beast did break that lone white sword.
Stars waned as a moat of blood was poured,
And many who once drew breath were dead,
As the sands grew a darker shade of red.