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Run Through

No warrior’s death is coming for me
no weighty samurai sword to release
my foolish life from it’s foolish chest
as I lay dying into this field of shame.
Stench of copper and taste of metal
adrift I’m alone am battered and torn
oh that I could recompense my love!

No quiet wake of honor shall be held
no slow loving march of the damned
will sure carry me peacefully to sleep
no I shall ever wail silently as I decay.
Terrible mists of doom rise eerily and
creep hauntingly through fading eyes
spying the distant shores of love lost.

No angels of mercy will soar this field
thick with this rancor of bitter defeats
they will not remove this elegiac song
shrouded by sick stench of stoic hope.
Oh that I could in great haste be felled
not seep bone coldly into Hades cruel
might his dread hot abyss of suffering.

No arrow swiftly flying will find its mark
no sword nor spear can ever pierce me
Aye, this poison by which I die yet slow
loose the design even of black vultures.
I will wither and die in years as it reigns
cold perfect terror over me and claws at
where slow my life leaking seeps to hell.