Landschneckt

A man is at his lowest, lying wounded on a smoky

battlefield.

When night begins to fall, and twilight tints the sky

purple and orange.

While the thunder of great horses’

hooves fill his ears,

and the stench of death rises from the earth like putrid steam.

Man, supported by splintered boards,

eyes drawn to the far off haze.

Rider on the horizon, growing closer as the sun sets.

Man’s consciousness fades, and soon,

black cloak and smoking skull

call his name.

The beast’s eyes red, like molten iron,

in the dimness of early evening.