by Nick Gisburne
He hurls the quartered torso to the hounds
And spits to curse the severed head, his prize
Upon his soul a storm of slaughter pounds
The winds of flaming fury blind his eyes
The last of them, his enemies, lie dead
But every ally fought and fell this day
From filthy fields of blood, stained black and red
A tide of hearts and hopes has drained away
He kneels, alone, one man to count the cost
And though the price is clear, the spoils are not
Who crowns this king when every life is lost?
Who rules a graveyard rank with rats and rot?
The King of Nowhere, lord of death and war
Remembers nothing he was fighting for
