|
|
|
|
The Guardian heavy in his lungs moving over the ground like a fleeing animal running from a terror that consumes. Bedlam so silent and still and each pressure-point in his hand calls attention to the grip he has upon his sword a little piece of courage to bide for. Though he knows in the waiting night his hour is advancing, the black coach calls unaware here alone he stands defiant. Mere man fleshly hands to hold back dread creatures woven of dark dreams fragile beating heart lungs breathing air no stronger matter as immortality. Wait now for the battle to commence from nowhere comes the odor a stone shivers a leaf sighs and somewhere in the night a child screams. In his eyes a soul fights with fear this beautiful strength so fleeting astounding each time he stands to the last in victory's carnage. Blood and death bright eternity woven through his flesh a gifting of the one here stands the guardian. |