The boughs of the birch are burning in the wind.
Swords and slayers stride out to war.
They are eager to eat and ensnare the ground.
Making a malicious mockery of the world.
As they tread underfoot, these treasures of mine.
I call for help as they crush my home.
I raise my hands to repel their charge.
But I am falling and failing as frail as a lamb.
And ending what they began they erase my heart.
I am lost, laid under loam without mourning.
My head made a trophy of heathen victory.
Raised on a standard that I raced to defeat.
Now none will know the narrative of my story.
For the dead are disregarded to decay and not to speak.
My life is now silent and has been lived in vain.
Category: Poetry