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.

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