Two glossy ravens patter along the rusted tracks.
Visual heat.
Green and Blue sheen melds with the metals reflected light.
Like acid to the eyes...
Scurrying across the burning path long ago deserted.
Sound numbed.
Golden grassy stalks that border dare not bend or rustle.
Like an army in salute...
The fowls pace is quickened as the sickly sun sinks west.
Day's surrender.
Darkness stirs from it's slumber, slowly inks across the sky.
Like blood dropped in water...
Liquid black pupils survey the change and press on forward.
Tracks vanish.
The way abandoned, never finished, left to rot.
Like the broken-hearted...
Turning back towards the sun's corpse, returning to where they had come.
They march.
Tiny claws tapping the melody of the tracks.
Like haunting echos of the past...
They march on.