BOOK THREE

Dust to Dust

Hollow footsteps, cloaked by night

of sadness known through tortured sight;

The willow weeps its tears of woe as

Owl moans the twin moons’ glow.

Wind whispers through the willow’s leaves, and

Owl, perched high, eternal grieves.

Raven drinks the blood of Sigmar’s dead,

But soon flies off to hidden bed.

Weary ’neath death’s black spell,

The dead know pain that none can quell.

Cursed to fight those they loved,

Forever lost, each journey taken,

plagues the mind; the nights awaken.

Troubled visions, thoughts of yesterdays,

that seem like beacons; lives away.

Random comforts cannot ease their soul,

For knowledge takes its weary toll

’Pon one who suffers with each breath,

Who slept once in peace, then awoke in death.