Untitled: #4225

In the midst of things that last,
there lies the ruin of our past.
Broken trust, unfettered flight,
another dawn, a final night.
Arms wide spread to take the sky,
as Fall creeps on and seasons die.
Lost in transit, found in thought,
these words and pen are all I've got,
Perhaps there lies a hidden line,
beneath rose's thorn and ivy vine.
Carved upon forgotten stone,
buried deep and all alone.
Brought back to light by busy hands,
in far away dreams of barren lands.
Once fair and far divided,
the final battle thus collided.
And on the moor, or fen, or swamp,
the growing sound of the soldier's stomp.
Beneath the skies in summer heat,
cicadas buzz and drummers beat.
To hills and homes so far away,
beneath the trees that used to sway,
to cities grand with great design,
that's all that's left of these dreams of mine...