Atop the bloody hill the lone warrior stood
His armor in tatters, his sword chipped and on
the verge of breaking.
Blood stained what remained of his armor and sword,
splashes of it had slathered across his face like a wound.
Though he knew he had won the day and his enemies
lay slain at his feet, he knew the hallowness of this victory.
For mingled within the numbers of the dead were what
remained of his allies as well; friends who had known him
and stood with him since he was but a boy,
slaying dragons in his imagination.
How he longed for those friends now, to cheer with him,
to celebrate the victory, but their eyes have grown empty
and their bodies cold, for his friends were gone and he was truly alone.
And their he stood, upon that bloody hill, knowing he had
claimed victory, but the victory felt as hollow as any defeat.
And so his sorrow too him; leaving his broken armor and sword
upon that bloody field, vanishing into the mists of time,
alone and forgotten hero