Red o’ Blood
Crimson tide that washed over me,
With gruelling pace, it broke free.
To where life was but a dread,
Not full of miracles, but misery.
The Summit
Snow-capped, pristine as the Realm above, Glistening brightly as the Sun greets her, Tranquil and undisturbed, pure as a dove, Yet Chaos is not unknown to her, As she shrouds the graves of unfulfilled dreams; Of winning her, with her white shroud.