Orb

The fires slowly die Above the black raven will fly The ghostly pale mist covers the sky Smell of led is mixed with whistles of bombs falling near by The heather with its violet coloring gives eerie aura about the fields Forest and mist is the only thing that from enemy fire shields Instead of one there are many scattered battlefields Cut are bodies like heather by death that scythe wields The setting sun gives pale mists orange crease The sense of growth from the bottom of void and fear of turning back to void now increase Suddenly the noises cease And separated soul is at peace Dust after battle wreathes into the air Smell of lead still can be sent in that air The cries of dying still can be heard in the air But the mind and the soul is in different place somewhere It remembers the battlefield pain But suddenly there is long lost feeling that it was not all in vane Where lack of purpose was once so plain The one that created time spawned creation from void is visible again Void, opposite of void and all numbers beyond To the maker of time now respond But to his glory they are like urine left on the empty field or a pond Will he be just with that amount of power and growing beyond? He is now in a form of a blue orb He can be seen but the presence is hard to absorb With his power pain can end and suffering like sponge he can absorb If this is power of imagination intellect needing no base and beyond would create what orb