A brave warrior puts on his mask,
not of silver or gold, but wax.
He draws his crimson blade,
for he is accustomed to the blame.
He mounts in his darkest hour,
through those plains of judgmentals shower.
In the presence of his foes,
he has no fear that shows.
Their he stands and gaisses at his prison,
with sword at hand, but not risen.
He stairs at its emerald walls,
and enters those crowded halls.
He walks in not seeking the horrors of battle,
and yet, enters a war he cannot settle.
He admires all the creatures in this hell,
for the hate he has, is not something he can easily yell.
A brave warrior fought with all his might,
fighting for what he believed was right.
In the end, their is none to whom I can tell his tail. The tail of a man that rose with heart,
and fell by the devils dart.
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Comments about this poem (Warrior by Samuel Smith )
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