Drunkenly, He stumbles. 
His flesh spasms, unsheathed.
Though, woefully wary,
He does not scream. 
It is an unfounded fear;
none could see Him 
through the ashen sky.
None could hear Him
through armageddon’s echo;
like some fallen seraphim’s
unrelenting lament.
It clouds the ears as sonic excess,
but He descries a shrouded christening:
one for a disgraced crusader
sworn to an antichrist—
though more of a renewal
of a writ already sealed. 
He curses the blasphemies
and wanders on,
as the desert abrades
His feet to bone.