So, in darkness,
and in foreign land,
we plotted our invasion.
Cleaning sand from our effects,
we readied for the occasion.
The air seemed to cool,
and build anticipation,
but of life, or of death?
The wind's exhortations
were a giant's dying breath:
Fitful in expectation
of whatever comes next,
forgiveness or damnation,
or an endless, empty depth,
lacking sense or explanation,
like this chasm filled with darkness,
awaiting our exploration.
From "the thorn of roses" in my profile