The softly woven script

of lost lives

are etched with care on the

barrow door,

Old alphabets twisted

to become illegible

in this age of remembrance

A man sits in the grey world here

dreaming of golden sunrises

and soft autumns,

whispering of the days

of withered dreams,

gilded moments yielded by sunlight

threading through mist

with hidden needles.

The sprawl of hope lies unmoving,

drowning in the deep

without a sound.

The prayer ends,

and the gods vanish

into song and memory.

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A soft sigh is heard

and a shadow turns away

from us, slipping into the fog.

We weep and writhe

in the shattered shadows

of fallen saviours and

wayward heroes

and we dream of a salvation

that will never come.

Tombstones are raised

to forgotten glories.

While bodies are exhumed

and contorted into a monument

of shame and regret:

to mock our unanswered faith

with the decayed flesh of our

fathers.

We build idols

with our bones and blood,

creating false gods

to guide our prayers

to the silent heavens,

to the restless deep.

They left us here with nothing

but fading sunsets and tears –

crimson-dyed clouds

streaking across the heavens,

like the wounds of a blade,

or the embers of the fire

that burned the sky.

Look up and you'll see them,

drifting on the wind:

the bloodstained ashes of bygone days.