Poison vapours

etched in gloom.

Ghastly, void,

vacant, the guardian of

a chained black gate.

 

Never sleeping;

eyes, as heads,

unnumbered;

waiting for heroes

to seal their fate.

 

In legends torn

from clay cast bright

we may witness

fire and blades and bows;

such blood-fuelled spite.

 

Now all too real;

slowly shed,

the skin of time;

and dreams of darkness bred

a tyrant’s might.