The March

The cadavers of Solomon’s time wander the promise land, Once thriving and green; now covered up in sand. Their souls are blacker than a starless night; Empty husks stumbling in search of the light. They search for the waters that have long since dried. Their Earthly forms have long been fossilized, Buried in the ground, never to see the day; Dust amalgamating with the sun-parched clay. A plethora of petrified prophets and priests, They rage against the light in a frenzied feast. They march on towards their final destination, Searching for the meaning of their creation In a world full of death and damnation. Nothing they do will satisfy their desires. No one is left to re-kindle their fires. In a world that doesn’t see past the lies, Not a single soul can hear their cries. Prolonged souls searching for salvation, We march on still to our final destination, Searching for the meaning of our creation. Who would dare aspire to change this race That fell from glory and was saved by grace? Who can change the bitter hearts of man? All we have left is dust and sand. The words of prophets mean nothing to us; Our hearts are empty, hollow crusts. We’re corpses that wander in meaningless lives, Letting our minds think otherwise. Yet we march on still to our final destination, Searching for the meaning of our creation.