The March Of The Dishonored Ones

Slow they go -
shadows dragging chains of shame.
The wind spits frost upon their backs
and Hel's hounds whisper their names.

No songs are sung for the coward's path
no torches burn to light their way.
The gates of mist and mourning open -
and the pale queen waits cold as clay.

Down they go to the hall of the husks
where hunger gnaws and laughter dies.
They drink the dregs of broken oaths
and dream of honor - once denied.

Slow they go -
into the mouth of Hel they fade.
The dishonored find no end in rest -
only the echo of what they betrayed.