A whirlwind wails over barren, dusty carcasses;
Cavalry of ranked tombstones stretch over the graveyard
and shade over the dry, scorched sand. They mourn
the bodies cleared of soul, buried in the sand, unnamed;
Weep over the lost ones and grieve those who will not be born.
Such is the cost, measured and inevitable, of the past that is lost.
They lay here, abandoned to heat and dust, haunted
by the wind and cursed to eternal
rest. Sad their fates became, from name
and crest, they nest an everlasting death.
They left behind the tears and
through blood wrote off time,
assigned to them upon birth, expired
under whim of the one
with the blade of death.
Death is a thief.
and the primal
thief of the final
Aldas Krūminis is currently finishing his MA in Creative Writing at Loughborough University. His work has been published in Idle Ink and Terrene; and he was a student blogger for www.milkround.com. In his free time he writes poetry, short stories and dreams of one day publishing a book.