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,


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.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.