Stolen Marches

Amid the

Still, calm, air

the sound of soft footfalls,

the smell of Vanilla pipe tobacco,

Stealing Marches over hushed fields

under a full moon.

Soft loam and hard soles

meet secretly in the darkness,

Betrayed by the pale clear light of the moon

tracks lightly impressed in the

barely breeze-tossed grass.

over hills and through valleys asleep

one moves smoothly in the night

without a care.

Shadow and smoke,

they cross the ground as if eternal

and ethereal,

leaving signs of their humanity

few will ever know.

A spirit freed

from sin, hell and heaven

released into the world of night,

contemplation, and peace;

Of cool air on the face,

gentle breezes’ caress.

The eternal quiet of the world asleep.

At peace; cool, collected, poised

Trees stand as they ever have

striving to relieve Atlas

of a burden too great.

Between their silent goal and their roots

there is a figure floating under the full moon,

amid a faint scent of smoke,

stealing marches over hushed fields.


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