As groping eyes creeped across the plain, Lit in a pale orange glow, The splinters of light illuminate the ground, Shining on everything that could grow.
The sun set laying a foundation dark, A pale specter could be seen, Awoken from slumber of an ancient day, One thousand more follow, into the fray.
The distant sound of war is waged, A twilight breeze carries an age, Of long forgotten sons of war, And memories lost forever more.
A creeping horde of ceaved and dead, With banners high of hope or dread, The luminous form of thousand strong, A lingering reminder, never gone.
What was, now gone. The walking dead amongst the fog.