Christopher David Louviere
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THE WARRIOR
He rides with armor, sword and shield,
Across the lonely battlefield,
And he knows his fate is sealed.
He rides, and when the moon is high,
As his life has passed him by,
He yearns to go, to ride, to die.
With mighty sword he's cut men down,
Spilling blood across the ground,
The cry of battle his only sound.
But all the fighting has taken its toll,
Its destroyed his honor, eaten his soul,
And has turned his spirit black and cold.
All the battles have been fought,
The enemy has been slain or caught,
Has all he's done been for naught?
The war is all there's ever been,
No emotion, just fight and win,
Can he live or love again?
He strives to purge his heart from sin,
So he rides with a foreboding grin,
This last fight he plans to win.
There he stood under the moon's bright light,
He drew his sword and with all his might,
He thrust and cut and finished the fight.
With mortal wounds he falls to the grass,
All his torment and despair has passed,
His soul and spirit are free at last.
He rode when the moon was high,
And on the plains does his body lie,
He yearned to go, to ride, to die,
And God has heard his final cry.
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