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[[As a note, this poem is not related to the Liminality storyline.]]

Feathers of crimson dance in the sky,
without a care of where they lie,
a twist and a flutter and a light-hearted swoon,
they dance to the earth like the flight of the loon.

In such a desolate place,
such beauty is a waste,
feathers of crimson lying on the ground,
a blood red carpet tightly bound.

Cut threads across a field of green and red,
the fallen resting in an eternal bed,
an orb of light arcing across the sky,
shadows driven away and die.

A lone figure stands in the silence,
covered in the crimson incense,
the drops of life shining in the glory of the sun,
a scene that marked that the fighting was done.

Past the glory of the morning and into the night,
the moon giving off the only light,
pale figures with dark feathers lie,
leaving the world with their final bye.

The end of the threads cut by fate,
only to be reused in the long wait,
in a world that continues to spin,
no time to think of events that have been.

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