the Horn Blows at Midnight

Rams horn alone
Sounds where once fountain waters flowed
Men sleep in hovels of cardboard box
Mumbling in the winters cold
Shaking Miter heads wail, cry
And point to altars denied
Rubble is all that remains
Of a world gone terribly wrong
Proud voices quieted
Of their militant marching song
Crippled hands waved
To days of glory passed
Fueled by greed
That was never meant to last
Merely a tease and a bribe
To follow another war yet to come
Another generation
Has lost their last remaining son
Moon of many names
Come out from your hiding
Show your face of blood
Shed your pretense of ‘Romance
Falling leaves whisper your true nature
And changing seasons announce that
Ten Colds, will thin the herd
Before the realization felleth that
We, are the Harvest.