Blood of the Martyr

 

The city lay in a dreamless sleep,

 I alone awake to face the coming

Dawn.

I had prophesized  this day.

That there will come a Dawn, when

time will forget our peaceful city.

And Dreams will turn to Shadows and

then to Dust.

For that day had dawned, the moment lay near.

I wore the Cloak of Night like it

was my armor.

Like it could protect me from

The Dawn.

As the first light strikes the city,

then comes the hue,

then dawning Oblivion.

For at the first clash of the sword

against Dawn’s early Light,

the battle cry awakened the

sleeping city,

from peaceful dreams,

to the coming of the Dawn.

The Martyr stood tall,

even he had yet to know

what this means.

He could not see his own fate,

even as it approached and awaited him

on his doorstep.

As the evil seeped deeper into

the city,

many turned and fled, but

none escaped.

No one was to get out that Dawn.

And the Martyr wept his own tears

of Blood, as his city fell around him.

He was thought to be Immortal.

The battle raged into the Day,

with the death toll rising ever higher.

And what could he do?

What could the Martyr do?

But stay and fight and be the

last to fall in battle.

And he shall.

And he did.

As the Veil of Night once more

Reigned,

not a shadow of the Great City remained.

For it had fallen unto dust.

Unto an Oblivion of its own Creation.

And who can weep now?

For what is done is done

and what is gone is gone.

But for I, who have seen all,

I will always remember that Dawn,

how the Blood of the Martyr,

washed over the city,

and everything seemed to recede

into the deepness of the moment.

I cry even now as I write this,

For few have known what I have seen,

and even fewer will ever live to see it again.

The death of the Martyr

Will live in me forever,

for I am the only living spirit

Who still walks today who 

knows his sad tale.

I carry my fear inside of me,

like I will live to see it again.

I know I will not escape it then.

For the Spirit,

Can only bear so much

before it too begins to bleed,

begins to fade,

Unto an Oblivion

Which I alone have not created.