Glancing upon crimson skies,
like a raven he lay in wait.
A fallen angel perched up high,
counting as the final hour drew nigh.
As crimson gave way to a velvet black,
a veil of darkness cloaked the land,
as fields of gold were stained with steel,
with the Devil they sealed the deal.
As the still of night was pierced with screams,
among the cries moved a force unseen,
like a mighty plague he swept the land,
as the face of God turned,
and He lifted His hand.
No army or weapon stood as darkness loomed,
from the start they had sealed their doom,
and in the now crimson fields where his task begun,
no one was left,
his work was done.
As he stood alone in the killing fields,
his grief betrayed by his eyes of stone.
were those who lay around him victims of wrath?
Or testaments of those who gazed upon him,
the face of Death?