Weeping Sentinel

Alone I walked, high atop a mountain crest;
There stood a macabre angel,
Sword drawn in silent challenge,
A sentinel of granite,
He seemed a part of the very mountain,
Robed, and draconic wings spread wide,
His furore was now frozen as dead,
Dead as the cairn that lay behind him,
And still he stood,
For even in death,
He was as immovable as his mountain,
As dead as his protectorate,
Wearied and broken I looked upon him,
Feverish in grief to find this spectre,
This effigy as the prize of my ascent,
Frenzied hands clawed away the moss
Of his ignominious vigilance,
His graven name was my own,
As my eyes streamed tears,
Blood seeped in two gory rivers
From behind his hooded gaze,
Death, take me,
Lest madness claim me,
And still he stood.