already the cannon roars

fires die and the cold of night creeps in
the light that was is only memory now
the past has been cast off into the bin
the ground is torn up by the rooting sow
frank messages arrive faster than sound
the hours are silent till the sun returns
ghosts from the imagination prowl around
there's naught but chill a bitter cold that burns
eliminate the simple and naught's left
to calculate duration through the day
the lighter objects have the greater heft
but no one may be left to speak or say
the statue stands with it's flambeau upraised
the symbol of a virtue no more praised