The Harbinger

My fair maiden lies shackled and woe. Her dress torn and soiled, tells of blasphemy and misfortune. Her soul tormented by God and government. Does this course not beckon me to proceed encased in armor of Mendez? Should my thoughts not intertwine with war? If my cries fall on deaf ears, will I cry no more? It is the Harbinger these captors seek. His lowered brow swells to the rigid horns of reason. His direction echoes of thunder as stride distends. He is shielded by maxim and plague of knowledge. The sharp steel of angst-ridden compassion, urges to plunge deep into the adversary. The imprudence shall spill forth in dark puddles. He preys in the shadows of man. Can you not smell his stench? Why would they call forth such a beast?