The Last | |
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The Last
Appearing from the mists, In the corner of your eye, Standing on his feet, The man who died. For what has he returned, Why does he live again, Is he here to save, Or bring life to an end? On his back his sword, On his body, his plate, His hair pulled back, In his eyes, is fate. What fear does he command, What honor on his brow, Stabbed through by thorns, And only he, knows how. I stand to worship, But I fall on the floor, His power and presence, As he, walks, through the door. To me he says nothing, A glance alone, Speaking to me, What I, should have known. |
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