The flame burns low,
the shadows casting
eerie silhouettes on the walls.
Like staring at clouds,
like casting entrails,
I see the future in that haze,
I see the end of all our days.
Where once great testaments to
only ashes from fires long since
Our hearts are barren halls in
lands that once bore more fruit than
But now, a studied indifference.
Now, the wind that carries with it
the howling of the pack,
the hunt for those who have lost
and are lost.
And like an old aristocrat
I sit in the ruins, ready to fall
on my sword.
But not willing.