The Soul Collector

Rising through the smoke,

They pay him homage in souls.

Souls collected, harvested,

He walks on.

Demons snapping at his heels

He runs far,

Far from who he used to be.

It is only at the summit

That one looks down.

Despite the learned's theories and books,

Warriors are not born,

Are forged by neither blood nor magic.

There is no secret to the magic potion.

All he is, is a man,

Willing to push, willing to sow.

No Mercy. No Mediocrity.

The ability to strive

Is all that matters.

What care has he for them,

The weak, the mediocre,

The happy and content,

The naysayers?

Take their souls

And walk on.

The journey is never over,

The road never ending.

Walk, brave warrior.

Behind you lies mediocrity.

How can the weak

Justify the space they have filled?

How can the strong

Ever go back?