The Thousands Storm the Keep
By Caleb Morris
The thousands storm the keep-
shields up,
lances out,
swords in sheath.
Foe fells friend in
sideswept ease;
blood scent drifts
in the breeze.
Arrows down black
block the sun-
on the run
we have not won.
Battle cries deep
with manly roar;
we are no sheep
but a boar.
The King has fled
His cowardice;
his men no edge
nor thy bless.
Thy gates are stormed
vict’ry near;
slaughter come
ten thousands sheared.
Blood spilt gaunt,
on the field,
alive march on
swords they wield.