Burning ceased before sunset,
ash motes akin to snowfall disrupted tranquility,
raising serpentine to greet the rage of dying sunshine,
dulling a pink blush of a farewelling sun in solemn grey.
Child like you howled,
clinging to remnants of battle like a babe to a newly washed blanket,
mewling as vitriol dripped idly
staining ashen ground with lie upon lie.
No blood was shed this day,
although crimson shadows remained creeping black along
the barren remnant of what was once,
a land of promise and hope.
cast aside the innocents
as puppets on your string,
to dance for your gain.
All that remains,
is a fistful of ash,
Which slides effortlessly
through your fingers
as you look west
considering what tomorrow may bring.