A single blade of grass pushes out of craggy block of stone next to my sandaled right foot one seed of defiance from a dusty crag....suckled on midnight mist. Blood in the ragged stone from dying warriors holding. Holding ground from the battlements girds the will of the solitary sprig...by my sandaled foot sprung from the ragged stone.
Suckled on the erie somber midnight fog bolstered by dying blood the warriors blood runs down the ragged walls of the battlements high.
High on the walls, I scan north to south from aloft from the fateful walls of the Keep.
Dying.
Is
The
Order of the day....the single sprig will witness all from the craggy wall  and men will fall by the score from grace. From breath and senses. From the cursed battlements to perdition.

Souls submissions to bloodlust and material gain.
Will soak the stolid stone and wash to earth to mingle spirit and blood with mother earth. And the grass will grow  unfettered from ground. As the killing season
Moves on.