Lit in a pale orange glow,
The splinters of light illuminate the ground,
Shining on everything that could grow.
A pale specter could be seen,
Awoken from slumber of an ancient day,
One thousand more follow, into the fray.
A twilight breeze carries an age,
Of long forgotten sons of war,
And memories lost forever more.
With banners high of hope or dread,
The luminous form of thousand strong,
A lingering reminder, never gone.
The walking dead amongst the fog.