By Joseph Armstead

The sign on the hill
Has the marks of muddy
Boot treads on it and
It is sinking in the mud and ash.

Ageless eyes
that beheld the wonders
Of the endless spaceways
The glories of the cosmos
Blink back cold tears.

He is alone.
The wind fans his hair
And it smells of old fires,
Wet concrete and rusted steel.
He listens for the silence.

His wounds bleed.
Here there once were kings,
in this place of shattered brick,
and they held sway over nations
and armies of fearsome might.

He sees Time
Pass like the waters of

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