In the Dark of the Night
He stands upon the moonlit chasm,
His hair spun of Luna's brightest silver.
He stands alone, garbed in black,
His eyes two tears cried from the sea.
His eyes he turns upon the world
Lost beyond death, colder than ice.
His soul long since taken by demons
Hidden by a perfect face, a mask.
In his hand rests the greatest weapon,
A silver crescent blade of legend.
He lights the fires and watches them burn,
Unfeeling for all his flames consume.
He cut the rose and watched her fall,
Cleaved perfection with one fell stroke.
In the dark of the night he haunts the land;
Some say insane, others say dead.
He arises from the ashes of death,
Not a phoenix, though, for they are not his.
He has no joy, no hate, no pain,
Nothing but cold in the depths of midnight.
No stars dare shine when he smiles,
Wrapped in blackness, night as his cape.
What he searches for he no longer knows,
Perhaps nothing less than absolute eternity.
He is the bringer of death and destruction
Where he lost his way, none may know.
He seeks an end but fears the touch,
Gives to others what he himself denies.
In the dark of the night, he will be waiting,
And shards of hopes and dreams will lie.
He is death.
One winged angel.
~*