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Misty morning battles call forth from deceptive night like a clarrion call to blood-rent veils. I, a man like many others see the mountain ahead, its rocky crags ominous yet soothing as they call to my Spirit, my Soul. I continue persuit though battle raged enemy slice at my back, spit at my face. I shall not be trampled, nor shall I be moved from my mission. Blood soaked, mud caked clothes hang like limp rags from my body from the falling times, the times of forgetfullness or rememberance of things best left in memory's fog. But now is not the time to remenise on morning's past or time lost to the blood-lust of the fight. I have been traitor to my call too many times to be smited by it's sting. I have like Judas looked for my rope amidst the field I purchased with blood. Yet, I survive and I press on towards the mountain. I will reach the top though blowing gail surrounds me, though darkness enfolds my every moment. When my eyes grow dark I shall push forward, when the pain is enough to make Samson cry out with the fury of agony I shall not stop, when the rocky face beckons and then laughs at me because I slip on its rough face, I shall not stop. I run my race to win my prize and I will not be easily beaten.
Fight me still mine enemy, for your blood is required of my hands.

- - - -Blaze of God, Spirit of Life, To the Death - - - -

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