The Ponderous March of Souls

Death hangs heavily in the silence,

shattering time's self-righteous freeze.

The weeping moon bleeds pale onto the ground.

The shimmer of life has been erased.

The angels cast in stone

have asphyxiated in their own essence,

standing sentry for the dead.

A revitalizing light-

The inaudible rift in Heaven,

as the imaginary war continues

inside the minds of the masses.

An anticipated lie-

These silenced soldiers

wait with baited breath,

under a pagan sky

for the day of their sacred resurrection,

for the second coming of their false messiah.

They rot beneath their hallowed sign,

same as the beasts they've put themselves above-

pompous even though they have no life,

mortality spent living a lie.

A macabre dirge for the dead,

as they march into the womb of creation,

children of the earth, as they are known,

children of the earth finally come home.