That precious morning ,
We travel through a Garden
I looked at Master,
Marching to his Death,
Hearing every single vibration,
of his step,
My heart pounded,
As if it was about to pop
out of my chest,

As One of our own,
kissed him on his cheek,
Marking a spot,
No a stain,
that could not be cleaned,

He became the Target,
Of Men that claim to know the law,
Blinded,
They did not notice,
that the lawmaker,
was stand right before their feet.

With one Blind Slash,
I cut through that Man,
As if he were paper.

It seem as though,
Master did not want that,
For he commanded me,
Put up they sword in thy sheath,
As he was dragged away,
I didn't realize at that moment,
but he did it for me.


© All Rights Reserved
Desmond Jones