Guarding laments ‘pon shoulders pressed.
Past glories have fallen, monuments toppled, in ruin.
Loves Crusades fought valiant and fierce.
Alas, as is nature, fatigue gives way to his indiscipline.

The young mans guard relented to weary arms.
His fight was long, arduous. His weighty armour becomes his downfall;
to his knees. Both warriors, they acknowledge the conclusion.
With Darwinian accuracy, the victor strikes true.

The once shining armour now rusted and blood caked,
it’s occupant long since lost to the superior force.
A blade of some sort juts from the breast plate,
protruding, as if a tombstone. No epitaph to be found inscribed.

Fallen warriors are easily forgot to the annals of time,
they remember the stronger man who stands in his place.
Not made a fool by felled mistakes, he learns lessons valuable.
He shall not be owner to the errs of his fallen foe.

As is the nature of these battles however, he too will fatigue,
giving opportune occasion to further rivals.
Our latest hero shall fall, to a combatant of greater virtue.
Such is this circle; an ongoing feud, to which so many are lost.

I am their King, they fight for my approval.
Callous and uncaring, I do not mourn the dead,
their purpose was served, their skills outmatched.
To the victor; your time will come. Serve me well, and fall in good favour.