The Rook

The Rook,

standing atop a king's castle,

his shining armor gleaming in the sunlight,

crossbow at hand,

dagger within his scabbard. 


He looks abroad,

and sees beneath the meadows

what appears to be an army;

an army of great size,

not sparing a moment

he loads the crossbow

awaiting hell among him.


When they are close enough

to where he can see the

facial hairs of the men;

he reigns fire;

as they besiege the castle,

he mercilessly slaughters,

mercilessly murthers,

every sword that touches

the gate.


Alas, he is overrun,

too many men to hold.

In the name of honor

he prepares to make his

final stand;

he grabs a sword from

its sheath,

stabbing and slitting;

the sword and dagger alike,

turning to a wine red,

his uniform stained with blood.

There the body lies,

the body of the Rook.



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