Memories From The Garden Wall

The swollen rivers eat the banks and the broken walls crumble further to the ground. The white horse on the high hill lifts it's craven head against the falling acid rain while the meagre crowd shelter against the storm. The dead marked children never move from their sentinel posts. Casting ancient spell and long lost memory like confetti on the sodden ground keeping vigil against the lords of contrast.

In this remote haunt of the godless thousands only a few can see the beauty, only the few have the listen, only the chosen ones can see the diamond age. Only the few are but a meagre crowd on a lush ground surrounded by the city of the lords of contrast within the seeing distance and like the sentinel child they can hear the future and they are never moving from their posts.