Do you hear the marching of the band?

Stick figures roaming across unscoured territories,

A ghastly, pallid rhythm––

Shadows of night, masks of moonlight

A fog roams along the ground,

And the air splinters,

The survivors battle a brutal wind, crisp on dry skin

The night is its own army;

War pigs, fat on their thrones,

Rubies gushing off of blood-splattered gold

Into fields of green, soaked in death,

Ash clouds settle over corpses

And a blanket of white and silver

Washes the gore away;

Rainbow drips down ancient walls,

Thick paint mixing with soil and iron weapons,

Peel off the moonless mask

Reveal pale, caked skin

To the planets and the stars

And feel an electric rush;

Armies struck down beneath dancing feet

While demons claw at ozone,

Swing onto the clouds and tainting them red,

But survivors down below remain,

Floored, like a car gritting down a road

Heavy on stony ground

Sending up fumes of grey splendour

Heading into infinity,

Exploding off the horizon

Into a technicolour sky

And psychedelic city.