Silver son of everlasting death.
Cold as ice is his breath.
Piercing eyes of the purest grey,
Shimmer and gleam in the ending day.
With flashing emerald robes and eager fingers,
The tense air full of challenge lingers.
Harsh is the winds against his skin,
Tints of pink upon his cheeks as if cleansing him from a wicked sin.
Up, up into the sky.
The victory forever nigh.
He can almost feel it, cold.
Its fragile wings and body of gold,
Is there right before him.
Just before his outstretched limb.
He yearned this win.
How long had it been,
Since his father favored one of his deeds.
His eyes trail to the waving weeds.
Yes, he will triumph over that wrenched saint.
Hopefully not to late.
His father never loved him, he knew this.
Nor his mother, never one hug or kiss.
This is his life,
His everyday strife.
It is his hell,
Lifeless and stale.