With the rising red moon and
a promise of doom we march
forth, impeded by shadows
lingering long and whispering.
Echoes of my own or another
matters nary, they rise now
from grave and ash and stone;
they ride now through ice,
and we hear their breaths, a
chorus upon the starless night
as they move swift and true,
thus we crumble in long trails
of dust and pale, faded smoke,
and we falter to a failing halt,
feel their cold hands extend
and clamp tight our frozen hearts.