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.