The memento of the marches echoes through lost time in a mind blinded by thought. The triumphant stomps— rhythmic and slow and hostile— grow a seedling of light, rising from faraway horizons. The formless marching, rebelling in volume, mounds over the thinnest of air. The feet drum like thunder— scorching soles that burn and build with the clapping melt of concrete, outlining the conception into a crescendo, the booming crash of the cymbals, and then a Maddening silence of the haunt, save my horror. Callused in ash, the empty light screams as the blinding quiet sinks. A mane of fire sears over my fearing eyes. Sound kindles as color returns. Yet amongst the bones, I am assigned the blame.
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