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once stood a great warrior

of malice and pride

with no battle too bloody

for his hungering eyes 


his blade, sharp and stained

stood tall at his side

left in its wake

only dead men would lie


then, in the distance 

that red, setting sun

gave a glimpse to the man

of the deeds he had done


the crimson and black

was all he could see

he saw not the flowers

nor the bushes, and trees


for the death-stained dirt,

and the limbs at his sides

were the very same sight

that made the man cry


he wept for his sins

and all he had killed

it brought his heart to a stop 

and his breath to a chill


in his last moments he lay

and gave his up his fight

he battled no more

and gave way to the night


now dull, lies his blade

wrought deep in stone

and far from his weapon

the man rests, alone


◄ The Fisherman

Rosebush ►


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