Alchemisland

The moon, thought the prayer

Had never before been paler

Stormwinds tug at mole-depth pegs and nails.

The four dead.

The war dead arranged carefully like maze passages

Spray.

Damaged flesh shines like a sun-wearing bay’s flank

The blaze he commanded made now emplaced;

Rankening the lanky, flagless standards of that land’s farmers.

Horses raised by spear and hard clout

Who starve every second week, and manflesh devour,

Rage against a rider’s harness at battle’s hour.

Each moment brings us closer;

Ghosts of tomorrow’s Rome seeing sense in the flame-cloaked bones;

Staring down at Olympian head crowns, the sitter of the Golden Throne.