A POEM BY CUNNEDA’S RAMBLE

The dragon ascends


On the thermals of chaos,


And the winds of wrath.

Eyes of malison,


Cold...grim, as the grey wolf,


Scan the horizon.

Seeking prey below,


With cold heart, 

and bloody hand,


Shield answers to shaft.

A voice like thunder,


Impaled on pain's own blade;


A blast of trumpets.

Now the ravens sing;


On the eve of carrion,


And heavy hand play.

Hoarsely barks the crow;


Warm blood upon his feathers


From the fallen one.

Here he lies, alone;


For stone dead has no fellow:


Dry bones waste away.