The Hero

When I meet death, I will fight her with a glass sword. So I wrote. Never once did I suspect that death would not come for me at all.

A young man with a glass sword in his hand stood before me. Someone had read my words and failed to understand their meaning.

He attacked and the sword was as affective as it was meant to be. Reason had stepped a side letting the blade strike me.

The hope his sword embodied escaped as the pieces crashed downward. There would be no hero’s return, his life now gone.

Red

Blood is a warm comfort, begging for mercy as it slips on my bones. As it drips from my hands I know I am one body closer to completing my work. I would beat every drop from them if I could, it is a pleasure to be red from head to toe.

Testify

I set my new witness free. Sure that he is imprisoned by the knowledge that only time stands in between our next meeting. Filled with fear that seeps from every inch, the look of him is a story in it self.

The story I want told is the one in him. He will testify to the truth that now holds him hostage. Letting is kinsmen know that brigands make poor shepherds that no obstacle can stand in my way.

Sighting of this witness will be the dawn of reality. Faith placed in charms and rituals sold by confidence men, will be proven misplaced. They will be imprisoned by their fears, leaving them grasping at hope like it is air.