Shining metal armour and diverse weapons line the shore,
The battle rages on as in bygone days of yore,
The flash and glint of metal from all hope is to endure,
Hoping they can inflict and seal
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
The warriors circle, armour glinting in the light,
Of dim torches 'round about in the middle of the night,
The shiny steel clad men against him, enemy to fight,
To get his armour with of real,
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
Weapons hanging by their sides, waiting for their chance,
A third bursts upon the scene, holding up his lance,
The only steed upon the grounds, slows to charges stance,
The horse and master, both make you feel,
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
He first cries out to halt desired blood seeking lust,
He will do the inhuman war he stringly feels he must,
Too soon find themselves wounded, lying in the dust,
If he must, he can, he knows he will,
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
He hates the wars that hate brings in, the blood is spilt,
To stop them he recalls result, a new war now is built,
And memory comes rolling forth, no, gone is his wilt.
But the fact remains of what is real,
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
They inflict on others pain while laughing in deaths face,
Unthought of weapons kill, like nightmares in their place,
Hoping they can keep up and speed up Deaths' ugly pace,
And fear they may, whilst they fight with zeal,
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
And they feel the dizziness cause by their deathly heat,
So forth they scurry trying now to help Deaths' defeat,
And now their time comes, hearts skip beat,
Death departs they loose their seal,
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
Our galliant hero stops a war, in the surmounting strife,
Barely in time, knowing that what can occur in living life,
Is in equality to that little weapon, the razor knife,
to escape with zeal in time to heal
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
The moral of this little tale remains as well known facts,
That as long as we must fight, we must make so many pacts,
To ensure a chance of not our loss, nor get what we lack,
But to ban together as not to feel
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
People treat ones lowly pride, not with humble adoration,
But take it harshly with the cruelty of no idle affirmation,
To the agony of a master's defeat, by the simple decoration,
As the fact remains we must repeal
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.
Unwilling or unable to control life's simple cold desires,
which are the cause of most wars and burning hot fires,
And the cause of animosity and ires,
The lusts within our lives must kneel to down
the feel of flesh ripped by cold, hard steel.