The battlefield is covered in rose petals,

soft cries drifting through the air.

Sometimes I lift my head to the breeze of death,

and wonder if you're standing there.

A figure hooded in doom,

a phenomenon we're all supposed to fear.

They call him the inevitable,

and they can never seem him drawing near.

And I know it's not yet my time,

but I still see the shadows lurking so close.

Trying to claim my mind,

as I tread among this field of withered roses.