The Final stand

The meek boulders were no fort,
Surrounded on all,
Shimmering arrays of armours stretched the horizon.
Black mist of death encroach,
Creeped ever strong onwards.

Pouring out from every crevasse,
Light reflected of their shiny helms,
The Cremulans circled close,
But strange, their fire withheld.

The Battle of five hundred years,
Boiled down to the final stand,
Of the battered few,
Beneath the hanging ledge.

Hundred years of tears and pain,
Hundred years of work and strain,
Centuries of oppressed hope,
Centuries of empty dreams,
Of freedom from slavery old,
From the masters a thousand old.

The masters old with promises new,
Descended a thousand summer ago.
A millennium of grovelling pain,
Gave them arks to pierce the clouds;
To strike the masters once and all,
All had dreamt of Cremulus' fall.

Dreams do yield to reality bare,
Here they were a meagre few,
From the once grand army of gold,
The lucky few who still did breathe,
The lucky few would weapons unsheathe.

The wall of black stopped afar,
Mock their prey, death door ajar,
They waited patient,  in glistening sand,
And thus began the final stand.

Their morale low, ammo still less,
Strength drained into the abyss of space,
They stared out at the black wall of death,
The Terrans had all but lost their faith.


TBC