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A man stands in front of a horde of warriors charging him. He puts his broad sword's hilt to his forehead pointing upward in prayer / meditation, the sky opens up upon a dark and dreary scene, a shaft of light opens up and curling ribbons of light come down to touch the point of his sword. He has an expression of quite contemplation, as the army charges him. Grand master work, mixed medium, mana from heaven, divine intervention, inked highlight, fantasy realism, pencil realism, granger, resolve in the face of unimaginable odds.
They came with crowns of iron and chains,
Strong armed orders, promising gains if you pay.
Yet freedom’s fire, though dim, still burned—
A spark, a flicker, a world free to be, unturned.
They spoke of peace, yet meant control,
To carve submission into our souls.
The brave stood firm—unyielding, unbroken,
Not bent, nor bowed, nor battle-cowed.
Not all are soldiers, sword or pen in hands,
Some fight with voice, with truth they stand.
A pen, a march, solemn— silent stare,
Defiance cracking stale air, freedom's fare.
To rule by fear, greed a tyrants creed,
To bend, to break our will, make us plead.
Yet those who’d rather die than kneel,
Tyrants falter, exposing cowards, they will reel.
No throne endures they build their lies,
No ruler lasts when free women, and men rise.
For when we the brave speak, our torch is raised,
Through blood and loss, through dark praise.
Oh, freedom’s fire, shall grow, set ablaze.
A beacon shines bright—let despots know:
No chains can bind what hearts have sworn,
No crown will last where truth is freely born.
Strong arm friends, the art of shame, souls in pain.
Threats, abuse, degrade our light, liberty's price.
There is no love in dereliction, fulfill your duty, your oaths.
Leave us now if you wish to be broken and bow.
We the people will be the ones to seize the day.
Civitasvox
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