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A man beholding a steep-sided pyramid in a dark land.

At the Fall


The age-old halls once filled with light,
Our fastnesses in better days,
Lie open to the abyssal Night;
Our ancient, most familiar ways,
Our long-loved places ruinous fall,
Trod by no human feet.

The whispers from beyond our walls
Are ceaseless in these final days;
Horrors gather, pale death crawls,
Beyond our lamps' chill waning rays;
The tables where we feasted stand
An awful horror's seat.

© 2010 by Banks Miller.
Image © by Stephen Fabian.