A man lay,

dying,

on the embers of a once joyful home.

The helpless senior,

that was once an admiral,

those many years ago.

Memories, of fierce elements,

of the crackling of cannons,

his war.

Long forgotten and done,

to everyone,

but himself.

The smoking smoldering,

stump of a home still burned faintly.

The final remants of moss,

were covered in ash,

on the cloudless night.

The man who once led his ship into battle,

no longer dictates his fate.

His sould, tainted with death.

A figure, wrapped in a cloak,

walked across the field from the last towering oak.

Scilence betrayed the insanity of the pain that night.

The spectre raised the scythe he held,

the dying man could not object,

his supremacy over his own will,

long exhausted.

He lay twisted,

ready to embark,

to the last journey, on the last ship.

The scythe fell, then all was well.

The soldiers moved on to thier next target.

All in the darkness of the night