Friday, April 23, 2010


Who was he,
Who stole the light,
Who walked away,
In the dead of night.
He braved all odds,
Shook away fear,
Forgotten hero,
We shed you no tear.

It all began
With a story,
A fantasy if you will,
And one of glory.
About the one,
Who defied them all,
Who blocked their path,
And made them stall.

He was a slave,
To normality,
Cursing his every hour,
In the lost city.
He was like you and me,
And he was tired,
Of living dreams,
That had expired.

The frigid fanatical,
Would never live up,
To the hype,
Of his powerful outcry,
A resonant tremolo,
And a mass movement
That turned solo.

And the man who stood
With a flag in hand,
Faced soldiers
With blue ribbands
Studied their guns,
Pointed to his face,
He then vanished,
Without a trace.

Nobody foresaw
A day of reckoning,
And of sorrow.
They came outside,
In throngs,
A massive crowd,
10,000 strong.

They lined the streets,
In rows of ten,
Waiting for the night,
To begin.
And in the mist,
At the helm,
There stood he,
Who would lead them.

With fists clenched,
That none could pry,
He let out,
A cataclysmic cry.
A roar that silenced
The grieving wives,
And the steely glint,
Of sharpened knives.