Bright were his eyes, no regret was seen.
He brandished his sword, vigorous and keen.
Many were the foes, but strong was his will.
For it was his sin he’s trying to kill.
Hard was his strike, many foes were felled.
But the more he slew, more darkness he felt.
By then he knew, what deed must be done.
With wry grin he strived, he knew he’s the one.
Face to face with the darkness he created,
angst and remorse bonded with hatred.
Bleeding and fatigued were forthwith forgotten,
with strongest of blow, the darkness was smitten.
The sun came to rise, celebrating his victory.
His dry smirk came back with a hint of misery.
The last ounce of darkness was always with him.
Though he was enlightened, he was born of the grim.
With no one to witness, he drew his own blade.
Now smiling with grace, he sealed his own fate.
Thus is the end of our nameless hero.
Inspiring and stirring, yet adorned with sorrow.