Beneath The Ancients Glare

 

 

            The beer from the Legion staggers my gait,

And the lights are all extinguished – passing each

Of them by,

The wife’s sat at home crying disappointment at walls,

As my mind’s still expanding on war,

A crow flying by thirty feet from the ground,

Intrudes this silence of night,

And the ghost of The Nephilim –

Catches its wings, and throws the bird

Dead to the floor.

 

 

            Walking with war,

            Walking with war,

            The Space Angel stalking my haunch.

 

            Azazel is a bastard procuring men

For a tragedy, insisting they shoot from the hip,

And prophecies of doom bring casualties back;

Men with a faraway look,

And we’re all empty of spirit, and souls

Of innocence are battered and slumped,

As his grin as a scapegoat is beamed,

And the light of the sanctuary is snuffed

Like a candle, and God sits with nothing to say,

 

 

            And we’re walking with war,

Through night till dawn,

The Nephilim here at our side,

And Daniel fingers the trigger

To put out each victim,

Concluding our sorrow – so tall.

 

 

            My wife’s sitting at home

Tending our son,

Then a Fist from my arms lashes out,

But I’m only the witness dragged down

Inside, all control missing from life,

Her beauty is marked the colour of red,

And I wake like a ghost from sleep,

And I’m spitting The Ancients for talking

In tongues, and my grief here on Earth has no bounds.

 

 

            Oh how The Nephilim stalk

When the soldiers alone,

And kills all the love that he had,

            And we’re walking alone,

            Walking with war,

Walking The Nephilim here by our side,

And the journey from danger; an excursion

To hell, their heart turning passion to stone.

 

 

Walking With War,

Walking With War,

As The Nephilim’s dishonour,

Takes every soldier sold Death!

 

 

Michael J Waite 20^th February 2011.