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December 23, 2012
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When the nights was a sea of darkness,
Stolen from Hell's own depths
When the meadows, in their starkness,
Welcomed a warrior's quite steps.

He came then, with his armour white,
His horse as black as his enemy's heart,
He came then, heard only by the night,
To tear his foe apart.

With his blade held high, up to the stars,
His legion lying defeated far ahead,
With the moonlight on his face to light his scars,
He marched into the Fields of the Dead.

He galloped within, into the looming grass,
His ghostly silhouette shimmering within its shade
He cantered forward, like a phantom of dread, but alas!
The mighty King had been betrayed.

There, awaiting him, was his enemy's friend
An ally, a partner a constant consort.
Who else brought the warrior's life to a tragic end?
None but the heir to the throne, King's son himself.

And till this day, on the dawn of a black night
On the fields where the warrior did bleed,
Comes a King, armour glowing white,
A ghost of the shadows, a phantom indeed.
Poetry, Fixed Form
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