The Arena
The darkness crawls inside of him no light to make his armor glim.
The crowd roars no thanks for the dead they just want more. The sun beats upon his face he grips in left his bronze mace. No escape for him the gate has closed. His armors hard, his thoughts are bold. A smirk lies upon his face as if to curse the human race. The crowed cheer for it is due, till someone opens gate two. A creature steps out from the dark, the man is mad his fame is mocked. The man strike first with all his might the beast counters with a bite. The man’s mace is gone along with his hand, uncomforted by the salty sand. All faith is gone what’s left is pity the man is hated by his city.
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.