Unhallowed ground
our bare feet touches.
The wild grasses swept
by a wind of calling.
A fire to challenge their God’s delight.

Into the earth
our King will travel,
his way paved with gold and thought,
to a wicked afterlife of no repentance.

Hear the mourning of the tall grasses.
A sigh at the burial pole
the sign
of a spirit unconquered in its passing.
We part in honour
and draw tears of blood.

Golden shoes he wore
in life (surefooted)
that never trod the path of righteousness.
In his hand, a jewelled sword he bore
that served no lord but him
(and no cause but our own).

A silver tongue was in his mouth
that satirised the words of the holy.
Carved in stone were the shoulders
that carried with them our fate.

Our King is Dead.
Our hope has died.
All sorrows chastise our souls.
We’re adrift in a gulf of madness
and yearning.
A storm of fear and hate binds the land,
this once Land of Youth
smokes with desire
for the Fist of the Ancients.

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