Author: Greater Myth
Their hair sways in the dusk,
Heads mounted on spears.
Some bad seeds and husk,
Their people shed no tears.
Painted in scar and bloody stain,
The sun sets on an empire of lies.
People left and shadows remain,
The last newborn wails and cries.
And lies he in a lonely grave, Ma’s love
and Ma’s warmth are long gone. All have
left- coward and brave, Those who stayed can’t hope to walk on. A black day of
regret dawns,
Ghosts gather in the street.
Fell prey to their own cons,
Now trudge with shackled feet.
In cold isolation and so very empty,
Even dust doesn’t dance anymore.
It was bound to happen eventually,
Dust danced- then got tired and sore.
It hangs now from stone and lumber,
Life’s last attempt went unheeded.
Then it slipped into a final slumber,
That pervades all things unneeded.
And the moon is nowhere to be seen,
It has no business in forgotten places.
Ruins without lamentations or gleam,
Loom overhead with crooked faces.
The violence of time is lost over here,
An eternity stands between hours.
A fading of the when and the where,
Lost amidst the screams and scars.
But there yet lie buried deep,
Inside the crumbling first hearth.
Silent little embers that weep,
In the gloom waiting down the path.
The embers scream in whispers,
They sing softly of times long past.
They sing without any listeners,
Their tales- into the void are cast.
But some day an ear will find their cries,
And the dust will again dance and quiver.
It will rumble and climb the grey skies,
And the walls will swoon and shiver.
The struggler will reach out for the last glow,
And the embers will reach out for him.
And into his hands when they flow,
Then no more shall they remain dim.
The struggler becomes the firewood,
And the embers are become flame.
This is the resurrection of the good, This is the return of the name.
Author: Greater Myth