The Burial

An omen and a call to arms
 
Like fingers they claw at the sky, pylons of a pompous foray. Sentinels to look down upon with vacant eyes
We kindle our willing to strive, to remain separate. A farewell to the spoils of fate, in shallow graves
 
We dig a hole deep in the earth, dig it deep to hide all our guilt. A trio of sarcophagi - triadic deceit
The quagmire could swallow whole, the black well of our malady, we grasp tight of offered hands, to stem the flow of defeat
We pick the bones cleans of their worth, whisper [sweet] nothings into empty warrens, mock prayers to revel within, who has seen better days?
Zealots practice silent vigils, we turn our attention upon their axis, imitations inured with former glory,  we ignore their remorse