Bartholomew of the Red Sand

"Theseus" by Greek Gods Info

A spark ignites the liquid upon the ground;

A trail of fire shows the pathway forward,

And Bartholomew follows it like a hound.

Footprints leading west like a code-word

Bart holds his sword along his side

Ready to unsheathe its snare mid-stride.

Wearily and slowly he walks with the light,

And clutches his throat with a sudden gulp.

Before him lies a engrossed pile of blight;

A dead soldier whose face was beaten to a pulp.

Now Bart holds his sword out in front

Ready to strike whatever horror was afoot.

“What kind of beast leaves such desecration?”

Blood flows like a river across his armored feet

Innocent pilgrims and children succumbed to affliction

Of the plague that squandered them all in sheet.

Anger swells with perspiration of Bart's brow,

                                                             And his arms quivers with a vengeful vow.

“Oh hither beastly tremors,” he basked,

As his armor flickered white in the flares,

“Your darkness smelt with hammer unmasked.”

The ground trembles with nightmarish mares

Trampling forth with a wispy cloaked charioteer

A giant of a man with the whip of a brigadier.

The dark caps of the steely chariot held spikes

As long as spears, and covered in friendly gore

Spinning rapidly with poisonous bite it strikes

Slashing Bart's shin chaps like a husking boar.

Pain and agony fills his lungs with deepened fear

For the Grim Reaper's sickle slashed with a sneer.

He fell to his knees, a horse's whinny rippling in his ear,

And Bart collapsed in a legless and sticky mess.

He looks around for a weapon of might so he may shear

That unhallowed cloak from the Reaper's scary dress.

A flicker from the pyre shows Bart the way

As he laid there, near death, war's emblazoned prey.

Poseidon's trident just mere meters from his touch

He prays to the pantheon of God's that he could muster up

The strength to have that weapon within his clutch

And avenge the dying wish of his arch-bishop.

The charioteer just inches from his last victory

Bartholomew snatches up the spear of his destiny.

He aims through the sparks and smokey fog,

His vision blurred by the unholiest of God's,

And throws the spear through all of the smog;

Its trail leaving behind a fiery song from eisteddfods.

It strikes with such force with Poseidon's grace

Into Hades' veiled and shrouded pale face.

Bartholomew would be written in the legendary tapestry

For his merits and triumphs of that fateful day

When Poseidon delivered us from our agonizing plea

At the burning battle of our home of Athens in the bay.

He come to be known as Barthacales of the Red Sand,

The man who delivered us from Death's evil hand.

"Do not trust all men, but trust men of worth; the former course is silly, the latter a mark of prudence."

~ Democritus~