Mistereal

They say he resides in deep mist,
Cast 'round murky divisions
'Tween the risen of the pasture
And the resin of the past, here,
Yes, ma'am, he is no longer masked in mirrors.

Whatever branches crack,
Whatever cannons blast, sinew-snaps,
Whatever men of disturbance
Burn fast the divinity of this earth
this land
Dissipate, as
Lasting as the oils of frayed gunpowder.

He hath fallen in whispers,
Spilled the spoils of the gray.
He is left with scathed face.
He hath gone to lay
with the water pebbles.

He hovers near brethren,
Blending broken burden bastions
In his wake
There is no terror in his timbre
No sarcophagus in his throat
He speaks softly.
He smiles now.
Smile for him.