The knight sat steadily upon his steed,
Clinging desperately to its neck.
A wound cut into his flesh left him nearly dead.
The battle was fierce, the price unimportant.
Corpses lay scattered on the fields of the massacre.
The few survivors have no glory in their enemies defeat,
And they are left crippled for the length of their days.
The knight fell off his horse, straight into a sword.
His body he discarded, as he fled this earthly realm.
Another corpse staining the grass, an incandescent red,
Another death in vain, another sword painted black.
The victor came in looking for a triumph,
But found only despair,
A clean sword still in it sheath,
But this mans soul shines a dark red glow,
And the madness in his eyes his only trophy.