A fine dream, dawn’s early light,

Gleaming like a candle, it slowly burns,

Pleasant, muted visions like

Unlocking your front door, or

Flying above the wispy clouds, but then it turns—

A scream, inhuman, siren of ruin,

Death’s descending whistle,

Bursting of static thunder, the rest is bleeding.

The herald approaches, singing off-Key:

“And this be our motto—‘In God is our trust!’”

Two red eyes, rising for their mark

And even a grin, for the spangled remains of man,

As fire streaks o’er the land

And the sea and the home of our graves.