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Snaeland

de Haunted Gods

Some call it deterrence
Others call it madness
Machines programmed to strike if struck
So the world itself becomes one vast dead man's switch

First, we dreamt of crossing the plains
The seas and soaring above the clouds became goals after that
Then, we dreamt of a fire hotter than the Sun
They say spring is on its way
That's not the mood of the world today

Cold hands write beyond recall, the final note of silence
The world holds its breath beneath it all, a fragile, tense compliance

Sealed in shadow, words of dread
Ink on parchment for the living dead
A hand may falter, yet the page commands
The final fire rests in trembling hands

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