The end of all time.
The ominous grime
Of hordes swarming southwards like menacing slime,
The bilious moves
Of iron dressed hooves
And stone studded shields above bleeding flesh grooves,
The sharp ended hooks,
The vacuous looks.
Death, asleep inside the pennons dangling from the somber tents
Dreams of drowning thousand mornings in the hues of bleeding scents
As the vultures fight coyotes for the carrion behind
And a sparrow mourns each sunrise world’s forsaken peace of mind.
The ashes way back.
A sky burning black...
A colorful village across on the track,
And others beyond
With laughter in bond
Then others and others of innocence fond...
Unsated, the rage
Unburdens its cage.
Breaks the wheat beneath the bellies set with thunder’s neighing fret
Howling earth turns viscid mire under waves of acrid sweat
While beneath horizon’s garden fears a moon the budding night
Knowing of the coming slaughter bound to stain its pallid light.
A childess, afar.
A smiling pale scar,
Her falcon, her flower, her flute face the tar,
When warrior glares
With powerful fingers turn hilts into flares
And growls reave the earth
With words bare of mirth.
“Pray your death be swift and painless, lest your falcon be of God...”
Roars a voice devoid of spirit, scant of rancor’s mocking prod
Watching falcon’s take to heavens turning lizard’s flying mate
And a burning hail descending in a tidal killing spate.
The raining coal dies.
No fear in those eyes,
And warriors mutter the strangest of cries
As horses draw near
And faces austere
Begin to unravel from halberd to spear
And bellows the voice
Its omen of choice.
“Pray your sleep before my saber, lest your flower scents of Ghost...”
And from petal’s blinding whiteness rolls a blade of cutting frost,
Sleet beneath unblinking eyelids joining fingers with unthought
Metal splinters streaking earthwards like bedeviled chains unwrought.
The mist sinking low.
And hands tend to bow,
Unscathed the trot turns to gallop then flow,
The army and might
No hindrance in sight,
And what can the childess still throw to the light
When hearing that bold,
“Pray your kin has fled of reason, lest your flute bespeaks of Ghoul...”
Thin the wafting sounds of summer rising from the silk and tulle
Rolls the crystal tinkling sweetly birthing moans away of hills
Trunks of ages hundred eons melt beneath the seeping trills.
A vision unreal...
Black stallions keel,
All bearers of arms yield the saddles and kneel,
To rear and to fore
The irons of war
Dismembered to slivers like summer’s rain pour,
The grim turning meek
The roar turning weak...
“Tell me childess pale of visage, maiden soft of breast and eye,
What was this of strangest magic turning war-lords battle shy?”
Turns the fright to trilling laughter, falcon, flower, flute and storm,
“Fire... frost... was none and neither, music was it... tender... warm...”