Beacons are sounding,
A cacophonous shrill.
Hundreds in an electric symphony,
Of horror.
Our darkest fears,
Made a reality.
Ash covers the surface,
Blanketing the light.
Seasoned men stricken,
To the ground with disbelief.
The mystery of why,
Never phasing,
The search for their fallen Brethren.
We've let the beasts in,
To cure the sin,
Of complacency.
They've taken their hold,
Never so bold,
Enslaving our masses.
Our anger their food,
As trapped we stood,
In terror.
As legions weep,
And their tears seep,
Into young graves.
Our young men,
Young women,
Never to return.
Embraces remembered,
Debts rendered,
On unfortunate souls.
They return to their loss,
The waves of moss,
Eternal.
The mother cried,
When her son died.
He passed alone,
To the realm of unknown.
It happened so quickly,
The burst of fire sickly.
His casket left closed,
Her son in quiet repose.
She interred her treasure,
Never knowing the leisure,
Of her son's company evermore.
