Undulating by the beckoning of the wind, Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms
Visceral is the movement of the procession, Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.
Warlike, the battle up the ***** claims the lives of those already claimed Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict, Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.