The Crimson Path (poem)

Staggering forward along the crimson path,
Mind empty, with neither avarice nor wrath.
Sword in hand, the only one that’s left,
Body exposed with armor sundered cleft.

Your flesh has long been numbed to the pain,
And you press on, through inch by inch gain.
You refuse to remember all that was lost;
All know that the crimson path demands its cost.

A small hill of bones collapse under your weight,
But you’ve no strength to clean up in your current state.
You look up and the hour is neither early nor late,
But your slow progress makes you dare not hesitate.

Doubt never before appeared and will not show now.
The question for you was never If, but only How.
“With no map nor guide, is there no better way than to wander?”
Easily you slay a charging foe as you continue to ponder.

Adrenaline rushes to your head as you register the splash,
Now you reinvigorate, and your steps turn into a dash.
The paths left by others are not crimson for you,
Only the untrodden could possibly be the right hue.