And now, a poem I wrote many years ago.

The Man Who Died

I saw the pale Death riding
On a haunted mount of black
Where he looked the thunder rumbled
Where he stood the lightning cracked
His steed was great and fell
Its eyes were gleaming red
With bloodlines straight from hell
And horns upon its head.

In the wake of horse and rider
There followed like a plague
A dark and ominous twilight,
A shadow mist of grey
And in this horrid fog
Flew the souls of the damned
And demons beat them on
To follow Death like frightened lambs
All who saw him fled before him
And withered like the grass
He held the minds of millions
Controlled them with his hand
He made them all to do his bidding
All except one man.

He stood alone in the path of Death
Dressed head to toe in black
He wore Death's own color
And did not bow his back
He wore no steel or armor
For his sword was in his mind
His iron will composed him
And his eyes were all ashine
Before him Death did tremble
His steed grew small and tame
The armies of hell recoiled
As their leader did the same.

That man died that day
He died like all the rest
But in his death he proved
His power passed the test.

Death is just a stage of life
We all must face some day
And when Death I face this man I'll remember
And go the same brave way
For Death is not to be feared
His power rules the flesh
But our souls he cannot harm
Unless we fail the test.

-Sora