Godmaker - 2011/05/23

There gallops in a pale horse
The rider long since disposed
Was he a warrior or a steward
It does not matter decomposed
Putrid carcass hanging limply
Affixed to shreds of a saddle
Whatever he might so be named
He did not win in that battle

Off they race men of the army
Riding to waste transgressors
Not sparing one bloody second
To track down true aggressors
Blood spilled is a favor owed
A final oath to lay down life
Therein the cycle perpetuates
Through an executioners knife

Those who leave are deserters
Nevermind their wrath falters
For when our bloodlust births
We create gods of dark altars
Free of kings and their lines
Yet we still wear aged chains
As we cannot tame wild beasts
For we do not grasp the reins

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