I stand in the wasteland


    of a once-mighty city,


    burned to cinders


    by the memory


    of a devil''s birth.


    I stand beneath a scorched sky


    hearing the whispers


    of the lost,


    those who died in pain


    calling to me


    to remember them.


    But they don''t remember me.


    I was here with them,


    all those years ago,


    at the heart of the blaze.


    Shadows stand in


    silent ceremony


    around a memory


    bent by perception


    and perspective.


    A child, wreathed in shadows,


    smoke and flame,


    eyes ablaze as it screams


    so loud it shatters the city


    and burns the sky,


    A child, devil-crowned


    chosen by fate


    to end our world.


    With that scream,


    its flesh blackens and burns


    and cracks,


    spewing lava and smoke,


    scarring its newborn body,


    even as it bloats into immensity.


    Its eyes are fire now


    as it towers above us


    beneath an amber sky.


    Its screams become the inferno


    that sets


    the world ablaze.


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    A halo of jagged obsidian


    spins around its head as


    it looms over us all,


    arms spread wide


    as the flames leap ever higher,


    consuming everything.


    First came the light.


    Then, the shadow.


    I am not what I was before.


    I am a pillar of ash,


    a memory of a man


    lost in fire and time,


    like all these other ghosts.


    Footsteps echo around me,


    But when I look back,


    I see nothing


    but another echo of myself,


    smiling, laughing,


    trapped in that moment


    when the agony burned


    so intense it became euphoric,


    when the heat drove us mad


    before it killed us.


    Behind him is a woman,


    who drapes her arms about his shoulders.


    They stare at me


    with black pits


    where the eyes should be,


    weeping ashes


    as they remember what I remember,


    grief cutting through the madness


    I stare up at the sky,


    at the distant pale light


    of dreams blazing


    in the endless darkness.


    Ashes on my chest


    are remnants of where


    my heart once burned


    with hope


    Only silence remains,


    regret and grief,


    gathering,


    then moldering


    into quiet apathy.


    But in the emptiness,


    before I crumble away,


    I dreamed of a time


    when we were at peace


    beneath the silent regard


    of distant stars.


    One day,


    they will find us:


    another people


    in another time.


    They will sift their fingers


    through us


    and wonder what became of us,


    the people


    of the city of ash.