Swords and spears lie on the field
in homage to the fallen.
A mournful cry is heard
in the rain-softened air,
a wail that is joined
by a weeping chorus;
The last choir has taken
the stage,
to sing a lament for humanity.
They rise like frail stalks
that tremble and falter
in their despair,
singing wilting, wordless songs
before drifting like falling leaves,
carried by rogue winds
to the endless sea,
forever lost
in the storm and the surge.
Eyes turn to the heavens
to see the maddening tempest,
the relentless thunder,
the flash of lightning,
and beyond it,
a veil burned to gaze
at the stars unimpeded,
a world killed with smoke and ash,
and we weep beneath
a pall of heat and failed hopes
We who remain
offer a benediction
to the dreams
of silent and nameless destroyers
slumbering in
dust-grey cocoons
that shivered,
throbbing and bulging,
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in the shifting shadow
of the black ocean,
and in their sleep
they whisper dark nothings
to the withering world.
We remember yearning
for more than this,
pressed against
this jagged wall of dreams
on which we cut our probing fingers,
searching for glittering
hope, embedded in
in the cold and the grey.
But long ago,
we watched our castles
fall, mighty fortresses
sinking beneath the waves,
while a nameless city -
a Bastion of Hope and Ideals
vanished beyond a dream’s horizon,
never to appear again.
Now we think of days gone by,
of an age, far removed from war:
The Never-Time,
filled with what-ifs
and almost-theres,
with might-have-beens
and never-weres.
The world ends
and we remain,
breathing smoke and
choking on the ashes
of our cremated brothers and sisters.
The cocooned ones have begun to stir,
awakened by our call,
by our pleas
to kill those who remain,
seeking silence, seeking stillness,
and an end to desperation.
They've heard our prayer.
We fall prone
at the edge of the rising tide
a pitiful thousand,
all that remains,
and we await their coming,
hoping to be trampled underfoot,
to have our blood and bones
and memories
beaten into the earth
by the march of a godless legion.