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In Remembrance of Red Sonja

A metallic rasp as the blade slides clear,
Gleaming brightly though the night is drear.
Its wielder advances with measured pace,
A mocking smile dancing across her face.

Her fiery mane swirling in the frigid air,
She enters battle with scarce a care.
Bloodshed and death are her meat and drink,
Her opponent's spirit begins to sink.

In the Hyborian Age she plied her trade,
With blade and wit a fortune she made.
Few men could stand before her sword,
Whether alone or in howling horde.

A legend to many, nightmare to some,
Her dazzling blade snarling a vicious hum.
Heroine or villainess depending on one's view,
Yet to her word and honor she was always true.

I wonder how she would fare in this day and age,
If somehow she could step from the printed page.


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In Remembrance of Red Sonja