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The Rook
The Rook,
standing atop a king's castle,
his shining armor gleaming in the sunlight,
crossbow at hand,
dagger within his scabbard.
He looks abroad,
and sees beneath the meadows
what appears to be an army;
an army of great size,
not sparing a moment
he loads the crossbow
awaiting hell among him.
When they are close enough
to where he can see the
facial hairs of the men;
he reigns fire;
as they besiege the castle,
he mercilessly slaughters,
mercilessly murthers,
every sword that touches
the gate.
Alas, he is overrun,
too many men to hold.
In the name of honor
he prepares to make his
final stand;
he grabs a sword from
its sheath,
stabbing and slitting;
the sword and dagger alike,
turning to a wine red,
his uniform stained with blood.
There the body lies,
the body of the Rook.
