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.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    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.