The crow sounds,
when the time is nigh.
Death begins to make its rounds,
As the spirits are ne'er high.
The hourglass counts, in silence
As the scythe drops down.
A warrior born of resilience,
Given a thorny crown.
A shade of pain
Covering the sand
Becoming his Cain
Slain by his own hand
To others, all seemed fair
To him, 'twas death's lair
