The air is cold and sterile,
My ears, recovered from shell-shock,
Ring with the echo of absence.
I think I am home.
The familiar frost-bit numbness carries a warmth;
The hearth of nostalgia.
Empty plains isolate the horizon,
The mirage of distance,
Littered with hollow whispers of contentment.
That hope that rises so far away,
With furious beauty from afar,
Makes His presence known,
Burning our exalted hands.
The Truth bears down among the hidden harshest of all,
Exposing the concealed faces without consent.
The primordial chants crying victory,
For through the repudation of The Shade is Truth beholden,
Carry their crystal message on the winds for all the be illuminated.
Hidden in the tempest, though,
Is the backmasked secret:
“Your shadow shines.”