Chronophobia

Dear Edwin, the puppet controlled by fear
and a fraying strand of fate. His lonely heart
remains drenched in the divine, overlooked
and hidden in his caricature. Time floats on,
with no direction, nor courage it had once held
close, like the companions who're now missing.

The whispers of doom consume his being-
though there's nothing left in the void he's been
banished to. He tricks a fellow knight, leads on
the Seer's lover, and still manages to find his
fingers held up by repetitive lies. Where has
his breath gone? For it's certainly no longer
keeping him alive; perhaps it has died itself.

Edwin dashes, crossing paths with stars and
planets alike, but none can lead him to the
girl he once craved for, the smile he drowned
himself and his worries in. His mask is cast aside,
where he dives off into despair, doubt encasing
his once collected mind. They never knew him.

His precision is fading, the light in his eyes as
forgotten as his future. He is not the hero, he
mumbles to himself even now, as his crimson
blood seeps from the wound she inflicted.

Oh, dear Edwin was never meant to be the hero
of this tale. His eyelids drift closer and closer to
dark retribution, a world where he is meant to win
this game. He's cornered by romanticized faults-
the claws of demented angels closing in around his
neck. The Knight of our Time has been ended.