He stands there,
Still like the statue by the lake,
With a sword that once swore upon
An oath of chivalry and bravery
For the people and the country he adored.
To him, time froze,
The breeze stops,
So the grasses of the land
That he stood upon.
All that he sees is the red sap
Once belonging to a human,
With the same decoration as his,
The same gender as his,
The same emotion as his,
Before it splattered in the air,
Painting his armor
From silver to crimson,
From the slit made by his
Blood-veneered blade,
And a face like battle paint.
And he records that day
In his tiny journal
As the day he unleashed his hunter,
That kills for joy.