Spoiler! :
In the midst of the pouring rain he stood,
a warrior cold with a heart that bled fire.
And cloaked in the murky mists of the war-field,
he held up his sword and shouted for love.
For the love of his world that he'd lost when she died,
and for that of his family, buried beneath.
For every memory consumed by the hunger
of a dying world clad in the smog of the burnt.
There, where the world lay weak on its death-bed,
his voice, deep and tortured, was heard on the wind.
His eyes like the ocean snapped in the rain,
hewn of the crystals that hung in the sky.
His shoulders were that of a man strong and young
with arms that were made of the flesh of the earth.
An unfettered strange power, not demon or angel,
a wanderer man who desired revenge.
There, at the end of the world, he was victor.
There, at the end of his love, he was dying.
There, at the end of his life, he was living.
Crimson strands writhing throughout the dark soil
cut through the rubble like knives made of water.
The life that was roaring spread out from his veins
and blotted the earth with scarlet disdain.
His last cry wafted away on the wind;
his last breath drifted away through the air.
And, for the last time, his icy eyes looked
onto the world he had roamed as a rebel.
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