The soldier of light bears down on the flames of darkness,
They erupt and consume the brilliance of the men who die;
The footmen are forbidden to live, their words are mere action,
Those who fought have fled and been wounded by their routing,
This organisation crumbles dutifully, like a whale poised on its own.
An army has four seasons, a real armed many survives time,
Always to the duty of thousands and thousands of plenty;
Time revolves around the circles of light, time is a material
Upbringing, that encircles the circles of such dire light
That light cascades into the fathoms of the black hole.
So much light is too much pain, of a godly scholar or a Plato,
Peace will arise doing the catastrophe, but wars erupt
Into thousands of pieces, that survive and blossom like flowers,
So then the wars end from battle; the four seasons are in
Effect, being the world of plenty and many and so much.
Topic(s) of this poem: death,fire,light