Ode to Gwyn

Never had the end of the world looked so beautiful

Silvery sands formed oceans around islands of stone

Winds swept steadily across an ever twilit sky

A red sun hangs petrified, eternaly eclipsed

Upon these islands stands what little is left of old

Once great stone spires now overturn and snap halfwise

Once great mountains now heave and settle side by sideways

Once great strongholds now rip and tear being flung skyward

Yet among all this static chaos rests a place untoutched

A garden of unmatched beauty holds the last plants alive

Great towering red oaks and prickly rose bushes

Sprawling tomato vines and downey soft green grasses

Yet one will find three things thought to be peculiar

One, a hundred blades rooted in the ground like trees

Each made of vastly differing design and steel

Two, a white, mistlike wall hanging between an archway

From which one can make out unheard wispers and strange shapes

Three, a figure clad in twisted black iron armor

Tending to a shrinking fire with a corkscrewed sword

Far off beyond the silvery dunes, two old bells toll

And the fog beneath the archway shivers so slightly

The iron clad figure lurches to its feet

Taking in hand its twisted, red-hot sword

The fog now disperses, revealing a lone warrior

And the figure readys its stance for one more fight

This warrior will be the hundred and first blade to fall