At the Fall
by
Banks Miller
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.
