D e a d l y
Raindrops falling come to play-
Tainting desert ground.
Howling winds that seem to say;
The death of life is now.
Four. Or five? I think it's three.
Is it blurred? The knife is sharp
Hard to tell- harder to see.
The middle, end and now the start.
In the fading night of May,
A drop of crimson coursing down.
Beauty lost within the fray,
Makes its mark upon the ground.
Crestfallen angle's loss of grace;
Loss of feathers light as air-
Often missing from this place.
Demons seldom care.
Someone's screaming on the ground
Some dare not to make a sound.
Life they say in truest truth-
Really is a deadly art.
Because this is the life of a warrior.