---

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.