The Gray Rider Poem by Jason Pack

In a dense fog,
He comes from his bog.
His steed of haze,
With an endless gaze.

His sickle of dawn,
And of daylight gone.
Crossbow at his waist,
He makes great haste.

A shield of mist,
Upon his gloved fist.
A spear of twilight,
Routs enemies outright.

An aura so odd,
No men slow his trod.
His mane of gray,
Not of night, nor of day.

His path will sway,
Day after day.
He is the mask,
Keeper of the past.