And there are those that vanish,
beneath the sundered skies.
Who prey upon the witless,
with malice in their eyes.

Sit smoking in the landscape,
a rolling wake of rage.
Tumultuous with a sickness.
beyond mere turn of age.

This rhyming lilt of marching,
doth shake the pebbled earth.
Resplendent in the darkness,
erasing his own birth.

And through that eye of nothing,
a glass burned through with none.
The sights were long and righteous,
terrible yes, but done.