He bled. He bled to the floor, letting his lips sag blood as his chest
was torn apart. His knees to the ground, his body heaving. His eyes
bulging out, he was dying.

I don't know what his life or story was, as I feast at night.
He set off on his life, his life, his life.
I cared not for his story, his side of life.
But I fed off him, and fed with so little might.

He saw me as I cascaded blows like rain,
He felt my presence, yet he did the same.
He attacked with strength, yet it was futile to the might,
That has killed him, and his story, his life.

He bled, bled apart to the floor, his eyes twitching as his arms fell
lifelessly to the floor. What was his life flew from his eyes,
his birth
his childhood
his love of his life
his holding the blade, defending the home,
his General Gibbins who held him at birth.

Yet Gibbins lay beside him as he fell to the might
of the night that slain him, last night.

His corpse lays there, bleeding down to a trickle,
And in his blood lies his memories of life.

So the goblin bleeds, and yet he defends for not life,
and for that life forsakes him, to flow to another life.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Chakros, in the year 261 MA.