Stillness like a blackened flower,
softest touch gone dead cold;
the only tale of this dark hour,
is the stain left: blood red, bold.
Mourners, there are but a few,
those who knew the best;
and many will still dream of you,
their hearts will never rest.
Silent tears from a stone cold man,
wails from a mane of gold;
cries from a woman with hair of raven,
and a child, of teen years old.
They all despair for the fire,
that once burned in your eyes;
but now it has expired,
amid the tale of lies.
Betrayal was a spoken word,
though none dared to point a soul;
But all new the dreadful truth of sword,
and nothing would change that rule.