It began in a dreary corner, a torn paper,
Frayed and shriveled, a secret scrawl,
I miss you.
Tumbling among the trash and broken leaves,
A devotion vanished altogether,
Within the torment of ruins,
A city burned with defeat,
Combusting with a strange blue flame,
Where the truths laid in musty blankets,
And mankind existed in a blind fragment.
A draft of history trickled through the earth,
In a strange solemnity, resonating into the evening,
On a scrap of paper, a comfort in agony,
Trampled into fragments of glory,
Smeared words of ghosts and honor,
In the depth of a damp archive,
Contained an endangered tribute.
Through the streets came guardians
And prophets, in crude armor of glory,
Carried by the Horses of Ares,
And commanding a songful origin,
Preserved in the voice of brightness and panic,
In a dynamic blur through the shelled buildings,
Silhouettes of shivering steeds draped upon
Walls of wailing and desire.
In the warm breath of Aethon,
Puffed a soul of interstellar clouds,
A fusion of threads and verses,
Mingling with the fragments of humanity,
Fluttering the wilting piece of longing,
I miss you,
Cast off in the liberating, immortal currents.