Walking around the dead grass and up through the trees
the bell rings and they
scatter.
Not to the winds,
but to ground.
Looking around with wild in their eyes,
they want the world to end.
Then they can be kings.
Dodging a society that chained them to small strips of lands.
The map is drafted in blood and cold.
They never look up the heavens,
for fear of hope.
Hope is something to be earned,
not for everyone.
The sun forgets to shine,
waiting for the moon to die.

So old,
they have forgotten their names.
The flames of reality burn their skin,
scorched earth and flesh.

The angels look down from Heaven and
scream.
This is the chosen people.
One day,
The monsters will come out of their trees,
rise from the dead grass.
Walk this Earth as they once did.
Until then,
their eyes will pierce the ground
and their feet will float.