The Phantom Seed Poem by David Lacey

Vanity plays his tricks on the living,
For the deceased he can do no favours.
Sanity lays her licks on the morning,
Asking the Priest if he’ll join in the labour.

Clarity stares down the haze before dawn,
Twilight adorned spins still, ever winding
Thread so slim that you may only catch a
Glimpse by the angel of your light.

Wasting away at a whim are the monstrosities
We left breeding in the courtyard. Holding as
They are a protest against the insanity of the Guard.
They protest interference in a war, worn out in exhaustion.

Plant the phantom seed,
To feed the burning citadel.