At The End Of The World

The crushing knights wore iron fabric,

and sat upon high stallions with clicking lips.

They rode upon torn ships

on a sea of confusion.

They steered their sinking, marbled ferries into oblivion,

this army with no weapons.

They will forever be dead in dreams,

and will convey no more ancient religions.

They left cathedral shells,

spoils of an immense war.

Their absurd heresy,

their breaches recommending funereal forecasts,

now trapped in a web of obscurity.

The ewe withstood the ram,

and the sentient rot

of insurrection and darkness

eventually dissipated.

All that remains is

an intrepid philosopher,

wielding a commonsense impulse, 

standing on an aging banner,

at this,

the end of the world.