SpawnPoint

The night may come down,
As the darkness may engulf,
The Nightingales sweet voice.
The Larks may fall from the branch,
Their beauty fading into the brambles below,
Even as the distant sun sets.
Into the silent storm,
Through the eye of the hurricane,
Spirits of the many dead,
Souls lost to evil deeds,
Reaching for the warm terror,
Of life belonging to loved ones.
The grass in the field withers,
The long winds sorrowful cry,
The heartbreak of the young,
The tears of the forgotten mother,
The painful memories of the old widow.
Even through the hurt of this,
And the failings of a God,
Man continues to fight,
Not merely continuing to exist,
Nor shuffle his feet in the sand.
Through OUR long darkness,
Surviving terrors of the past,
A few good men have risen,
With a light in hand,
The vision in eyes,
To vanish the Evil of the Land.