igniting the earthen flames of our passionate hates
as phantoms' footsteps dry the earth
and they beat a song of silence with their drums
and the harpists of heaven play a tender song of misery
too sad for our ears
the phantoms march on
the harpists' song fades behind darkened clouds
and pierces the hearts of angels
that their tears might fall
and moisten the dry clay in which we lie
but the phantoms march on
breathing cold, death, carrion,
in their wake, we lay,
listening to the beat of their drums
which beat silence into our ears
and truth into our minds
which grasp for lies
and the phantoms march on
ever approaching
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