Rocky valleys, blackened skies.
In the night, the raven flies.
Whisp'ring cold, he does not mind.
Peering down, his soul to find.

Vale steed's steps on lonely ground,
bring to raven empty sound.
Rider's thoughts brew stormy nights,
in this place of blind man's sights.

Blood that makes his armor red,
matches eyes that look so sad.
Yet his sword, as white as snow,
leave behind a bitter afterglow.

Eyes are dried by too much rain,
four times by a dragon slain.
How long shall he wander on,
being dead, but not yet gone?

Fiery breath and acid words,
long ago, but still it hurts.
Toxic thoughts and hearts of ice,
haunt his thoughts like hordes of lice.

Not a song that sounds for him,
nor a new day on the rim.
But his tale, his poem ends,
before poet first word sends.

Bleak sky has the day that's not.
Where a heart is left to rot.
Raven flaps his wings once more.
Listening to silence's roar.

written on: 20-07-2003

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