Dusty smells stir with the howl.
Echoing between the rattling cobwebs of this cave.
There's an army marching, drumming
through the rot of these commotions;
Strewn like splatter upon this ground,
without evidence of any past sound.

There's a streak of sunshine
crashing through the cracks,
pressing against a dried crust of face
caked in the ashes of war:
a battle turned silent;
the wounded, free of it's tyrant.

Out there in the empty space,
rain begins to fall.
All that is dead and hard,
slowly unravels, twirls, crawls.
Blinking at the sharpness
of what remains left in this darkness,
scattered alone across the floors.