Of Grief and Honor

As flowers fell, to her grave below,
I could all but see,
the cycle of conviction,with which she dreamt,
she dreamt of none but me.
Of the purest of blood was she,
like the tears of a thousand fallen angels,
the sound of a winding roar,
of lashing rain, and a thunder spree,
among, the open sea.
The mist of splendour never lifted upon,
so as I could never see,
never try or claim, to hear
her voice, in her sanctity.
A fallen angel does rise again,
among a dreaded path,
the signs of still immortality,
her sign of condemned wrath.
She fights on like a venomous knight,
mounted, saddle free.
A gallop on the silent night,
an echo, forever free.