The noise

  of exploding shells

  and the wails of men

  have subsided.

  The sounds have drifted

  into the unfurled black.

  Clouds of mist brood above

  a place

  where valleys and rivers meet.

  Night over the nightmare settles,

  cold and mute,

  Save where there is heard the soft flutter

  of ragged cloth,

  Its billowing stirs the Lost within,

  the clamour of voices,

  wailing and weeping

  of all the things

  that were

  and can never be again.

  He is a place,

  a torment,

  a fear,

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  a destiny

  in the shape of a man,

  hooded and cloaked,

  the size of a star,

  or the smallest shadow,

  a sliver of an instant,

  an endless vanishing,

  sliding through the infinite

  in that space

  between waking and dreams,

  cloaked in the ecliptic hues

  of the Reaper.

  He wanders

  on roads empyreal and unseen,

  accompanied by the wails

  of the damned.

  It hums and echoes

  from his ragged cloak,

  spun into being

  when time began

  He stands there

  in a veil of darkness,

  and his raiment,

  stirred by cosmic winds,

  gives voice to

  the memories of lost civilizations,

  and the sky is filled

  with the scent of dead worlds.