Beneath a sky of ash and flame,
The knight stands tall—though none recall his name.
His armor cracked, his banner torn,
A soul worn thin from battles borne.

He’s lost the war within his chest,
The ghosts have robbed him of his rest.
Yet here he stands, sword in hand,
One man alone to guard the land.

Not for glory, not for pride,
But for the ones who live and hide—
The child behind the cottage door,
The grieving heart he fought before.

His knees may shake, his breath may slow,
His blood may warm the earth below,
But still he lifts his gaze above,
Fueled by honor, bound by love.

He whispers prayers with every swing,
To saints and stars and unseen things.
Each strike a vow, each wound a hymn—
To serve until the light grows dim.

And when at last his strength is gone,
He does not cry, he does not mourn.
He smiles beneath the crimson rain—
For peace has come, and not in vain.

In heaven’s field, where angels tread,
He lays his sword and bows his head.
No longer fighting, lost or cursed—
He kept them safe. He died with worth.