The battlefield awaits me, packed with knights,
this is about to become one of my biggest fights.
There is the horn, i kneel down, lifting my bow,
my enemies approach me, lined up in a row.
The first arrow hits a head, ripping the enemy off his feet,
the second perforates an armour, causing the flesh to bleed.
With every following shot, with every hit i kill,
slaughtering the enemies, with some deadly skill.
When out of ammo, i drop my bow and unsheat my sword,
the blade cuts the air, singing a song with mysterious words.
I start running, the sword risen high over my head,
about to take opponents lives, and giving them death.
The blade cuts through flesh and bones,
decapitating the armoured ones.
Finally the left ones burst out in tears,
this is way more than they can bear
And among all this people crying,
there will be my enemies, slowly dieing.
Tortured, cripled, killed by my sword,
no matter if they were a blacksmith or a lord.
The ground is wet and soaked with blood,
Im walking over their bodies, proud like a god.
They started begging and crying, in face of the death,
i denied their whishes, and chopped off their heads.
But now, there are no more throats to cut,
and thats the point where i usually wake up.
I might be cruel, i might be a bit extreme,
but after all, its just a perseverative dream.