They painted me red
in a sea of black,
and I laughed, I think, as I fought them back.

My steel kissed more flesh
than iron and stone,
but I’m not a killer, at least, not on my own.

I won’t be remembered
as gallant and brave,
for this crimson snow shall bury my grave.

But it makes no difference
that I live or fall,
I would say my friends were dead, if I had any at all.

They bit out our pride
as they burned our barricade,
but I was immortal, you see, I couldn’t fade.

Now the sky spits fire
on a sea of roiling reds,
and moaning ghost ships wave their flags in shreds.

I’m accustomed to pain,
Agony’s but a quest,
I’d get up, mind you, if not for these arrows in my chest.

I have not been beaten,
my soul’s not yet reaped,
But I’m weary, you see, all I want is to sleep.

They painted me red
as the stars smiled on,
I may die here, I think, but I’ll never be gone.