Swansong Of a Dying Race

Pyramids of steel

Piercing the heavens above

Great structures challenging the ground itself

Stone does our bidding

Not that of the Earth

Unlike those before us

The land is our subjugate

I speak the chorus in tongues

And drift between worlds

Buried deep in the noise

Heretical voices grip me

With emaciated fingers

I tear at my birthmask

Screams fill the corridors

As the cold air strikes my face

The first breath in a lifetime

Halls thick with smoke and sulphur

I choke as my eyes learn to see

The insipid multitudes

Chasing the horizons

They ignore my pleas

And march onward to nothing

As gold turns to dust and ash in trembling hands

And rotting silver fills our lungs

The house of cards tumbles

And seas of paper engulf vagrant and king alike

As the sky turns to maggots

And the land cracks and withers

I watch and crumble

Stale waters rise around the babbling hordes

False dreams do not keep them afloat

And beneath perpetual oceans they drown

The vindicating clamour

Of clerics and devotees

Soar high toward the welkin

But no words of comfort are returned

Are no quarter offered

As the vast web unravels ‘neath our feet

And we fall into the ages of darkness

A deafening hum of vapidity

Is the only soundtrack to be heard