Untitled

Old, Grey, Withered, Worn,
Coming at the sound of horn,
A Company to the uncertain goes
And you, their leader, won't abandon.
For theirs is nobility,
And you their leader, sword at hand,
Lead them marching through the land.
Uncertain peril along the way,
Sleeping in the light of day,
In the night as dark approaches,
Searching for the fire that will end it all.
Unaware of coming fall...
Death, that shroud will envelop you
And hold you to it's breast.