Colors of Truth
Makes up the Sword of Ages.
Times and realms ago,
A wanderer has been lucked out the most,
For he walked upon soil,
Where the dreaded sword was forged.
It was sought by many,
Evil and brave,
Yet none have succeeded this far.
And only the man of a purest heart,
Is bound to keep it for time.
But a man is no elf,
And a heart kept pure,
Cannot - for in every man, or mankind,
Blackness has always been dreaming inside.
And once awoken it cannot be squelched,
Like the call of the elves to the sea.
So the man bore the sword away,
To the doom that is yet to come.
After just a certain time,
The sword has awakened behind his back,
And started potting a scheme,
For he has a mind of his own
In a nearby future, a horrible,
Disastrous curse shall be released.
And the wanderer of a purest heart,
Shall be crowned a king.
Only it shan't be a king as we know him,
For that is a king of trust and loyalty,
But a king of lies and deceit,
The one that is destined to rule.
His rule shall spread far and wide,
To the deepest holes and the highest peaks,
And there shall be no end,
Until one day.
The sword is fed up with the sneaky ruler,
He lusts for blood and rage,
So it is time for him to abandon the one,
Who set him free from his cage.
And in the next long ages or so,
The sword shall pursue its goal,
To drink the blood of the enemy,
Although not important which one.
And at the end of times,
When the sun goes down,
To never come up,
The sword shall reveal its truth.
The dream that was dreamt once,
A dream of a perfect land and realm,
Shall spring form the sword,
Like water on rock.
Life will grow all around it,
A new sun will be lit in the sky,
And the wonderer shall smile up high,
For his artwork is now complete.