The Dread March

Oldy from my old old site – see if you can figure it out.

Jackboots pummel the earth into submission, and aloft they hold their flags, like their souls, tacked to mere sticks, in the air. Symbols of their principles, shouted and blaring aloft, but colourless, supported by wood and clenched fist alone.

Theres no real noise. It's a hideous silence, reflected like the flash of the muted light from the apexes of those ever marching black boots.

Stamp, stamp, stamp. The heart beat of their universe closes in on mine, I know – at that point I am the thing they wish to consume. What do they really want, these leather-clad automatons.

She turns to me, and her eyes are as grey as the stars, muted by the decay of civilisation, rotting blissfully in the glare of it's own self loathing. Her movement is slow, deliberate, relishing.

"Can't you see? Can't you see where you are? Look at the era, look at the air, look at the hum of us – Do you not want to dance to our melody". The lips twist in snarls and sneers, connected by a hellish self-righteousness.

The wood offers no comfort, it's formerly rich hues wane before me, and the darkness of her eyes blackens sight, oozing in front of her – a sheild. She, or what she was is in there perhaps, in there at some time.

She needs no pole to hold aloft her soul, it departed with the colour that once adorned her cheeks and eyes. A seed tossed away, leaving just emptiness behind.

Her eyes, expanding black orbs, stetch forever. With the malice, they fill my vision, deep abysmal depths that consume my sight and fear.

The blade comes, the pain seems distant, for I am already departed. Red stains the grey world, but it is the banshee who is dead.

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