Last Stand Poem by Brendon Secrist
Last Stand
I cry out for help,
And draw my sword.
We are surrounded,
And beaten to the floor.
My sword in hand,
I rise again.
To make a stnad,
And try to win.
I kill them all,
With deadly skill.
I take your hand,
And pick you up.
Hold you close,
And warm you up.
I mend your wounds,
With gentle care.
I've never looked,
Upon one so fair.
Oh, what I'd kill,
To see you bare.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 9:54:39 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
maybe this comment is better one set on a more private message place...