sound the horn ;
The dead are preparing for war, my
gut is a forge they cannot find
Who hides Hephaestus' phoenix inside
chinks of rattling 
chainmail ; 
feather-
beak-
claw(ing)
up gravestones, RIP(ping) breath from
Flesh

So when the skies tremble to hear the
wailing of a burning sun-set
,,,
they will ride in, a silent scream of glowing-iron-hell-fire-
Hail :::
Daughter of Echidna
will You 

lead us

to victory?