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2) Withered Glory

  The softly woven script

  of lost lives

  are etched with care on the

  barrow door,

  Old alphabets twisted

  to become illegible

  in this age of remembrance

  A man sits in the grey world here

  dreaming of golden sunrises

  and soft autumns,

  whispering of the days

  of withered dreams,

  gilded moments yielded by sunlight

  threading through mist

  with hidden needles.

  The sprawl of hope lies unmoving,

  drowning in the deep

  without a sound.

  The prayer ends,

  and the gods vanish

  into song and memory.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  A soft sigh is heard

  and a shadow turns away

  from us, slipping into the fog.

  We weep and writhe

  in the shattered shadows

  of fallen saviours and

  wayward heroes

  and we dream of a salvation

  that will never come.

  Tombstones are raised

  to forgotten glories.

  While bodies are exhumed

  and contorted into a monument

  of shame and regret:

  to mock our unanswered faith

  with the decayed flesh of our

  fathers.

  We build idols

  with our bones and blood,

  creating false gods

  to guide our prayers

  to the silent heavens,

  to the restless deep.

  They left us here with nothing

  but fading sunsets and tears –

  crimson-dyed clouds

  streaking across the heavens,

  like the wounds of a blade,

  or the embers of the fire

  that burned the sky.

  Look up and you'll see them,

  drifting on the wind:

  the bloodstained ashes of bygone days.

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