A Mighty Foe
Hectic-darkness settles in;
the scent of death
draws ever near!
The task at hand,
it cannot be said
we fled nor challenged circumstance.
The battle hymn,
it plays on;
the sound of cries
of pain and fear.
Death sets forth
with skill and might;
his touch will gather
souls this night.
His army follows each command
without question
nor of doubt.
After all life is short;
a gift born of sport.
Why are we than,
pawns of chance-
come and join me;
may I have this dance.
Twirl and spin,
the music sweeps
along the path
we can but perceive.
And with each breath
with certainty;
we draw closer
to mortality;
skill and strength,
matter little
when in struggle-
death your foe;
fight and pray
for your immortal soul.
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