By: Duunrah Posted on: June 13, 2004
Noxtra draws her
tattered shroud over the rough edges
and the hollows that remain.
Only some leaves
and the tiny, hiding things,
breathing fast in the shadows,
flinch with the cold.
Here, the ghosts of betrayal
heavy with shame,
have long dragged their silent forms
aimless, forgotten,
far into the plains of dust.
Now, atop her broken Iron Crown,
flecked with blood and ash,
only the soldiers of wind,
and the soldiers of rain,
march along the battlements
calling to one another
in the ancient languages of anguish,
faint, faint to man's ear.