Although the sword of the king rang cold with fury,
it wore the warm carmine blood of his enemy.
His heart thumped, was proud like his weapon,
at the behest of his own revenge. Beating his chest aloud,
he exclaimed, I am victor o’er my adversary and the
grave! Who shall come against me? I have the fortitude of
a hundred men! I would have learnt to love black days like bright
ones. Who dare stand against me in the day of battle? My feet hath
trampled the wicked. My arm hath stricken the feeble
warrior at his doorstep. My eye has seen the fields ripe
with the blood of the challenger. I have inhaled the breath
of the assailant and exhaled in mighty triumph! I am slave to no army,
ha! As the king spoke, a random arrow struck him in the heart.
Benjamin Thomas
The Writing Train: Join the locomotion 