a poem

Words unread upon a page
Perdition's child upon the battlefield
A bloodied rose, a shallow grave
The clanging of swords and armor
The genesis of hatred and warfare

He carries the ruins of the cross
Across the sweeping rains
Demons wake at 3 a.m.
They mock his name

I lock many doors but open few
I am only a writer; a mystic
a blind shaman, listening
to the flow of life
as it passes

Perdition's child has learned to weep
He steps over the corpses of the fallen
Each grips a flag drenched in the blood of his god
Each man knew the truth, dying in the cloak of their
righteousness.

Perdition's child carries the lame, the sheep
For 2 thousand years he has roamed the fronts
Hearing their prayers and closing their eyes
His tears burn; bitter they fall