Love Wins All

No one feels dread like the one who lays on the altar does.

In a crowd of blunted swords, dulled by the manipulative ways of the one who brings forth the knife, there is a glimmer of unswayed difference.

No one feels panic like the one who pushes through the crowd does.

Raised eyebrows, gasps and dirty looks are the language in which they communicate with at that moment. He has eyes for no one but her. For no one but the women laying on the altar, now with her head raised.

Dressed in white. 'There was only supposed to be one day for that' he thinks.

Reaching the front at last, he grips- mentally and physically, at the weapon in his disposal.

He won't let this happen, he thinks.

Unsaid words flick through the lovers' eyes before he plunges.

He tries hard but to his avail, no words splutter out. For the tip of the man's sword is now jutting through the his neck.

Now, the only blood painting the walls in a gruesome attempt at abstract is the one who favoured his own life over hundreds of others.