Howard Long

A tearing air fills the room
the halls are swept with leaves.
The door awaits its final doom,
it fears its love-filled eaves.
...

Lost horns wake the night
a tune not felt in ages.
Searching for man's might,
a tool with rusted edges.
...

A tall ship cut the waves
deck upon deck with iron,
the hilly sea a wasteland
no destination desired.
...

Now the the feet scamper,
the nights are dreamless toil,
the sun runs past to embers
and papers wall the rooms.
...

The blade was snapped and broken,
the sword was cracked and bent.
The tool of man's resurgence,
is now asunder rent.
...

On that night the wind blew sharp- the cold, a crisp cut sheet.
While waves played toss with oaken boats and ships of ice.
Musketted men fell row on row in rickety boats of wood.
While one, above all, stood as of iron, the wind a passing fancy.
...