Marching Footsteps

The marching footsteps of soldiers

Echoed through the great halls,

We scampered like thieves

To where the whistling wind calls.

We ran with a flurry,

But kept to the shadows.

Behind, the footsteps trailed,

They were all once great fellows.

As the great war corrupted,

Their kind souls were no more.

In their place was an empty shell,

Puppets of the king, they were now abhorred.

When the war began to fall in a torrent,

Our sleepy eyes began to strain.

The town was covered in an ominous blanket,

The only thing awaiting us was pain.

The rain fell like our hopes for redemption,

But through the slishity-slosh of the rain, a cry was heard.

On that dark last night, our hopes gave one last stir

As a child was found, hair black like a bird.

We stooped to collect her wailing form,

And the stalking footsteps drew near.

The childs protector ran for refuge,

And the stayed to end what they'd had to bear.

When the war fell to ashes,

And the streets were left drenched in blood,

The black cloud began to lift.

That war now an echo of those slain in the mud.