Hoplites march to a bloodied beat,
void of all notion – their impending demise.
The sickle shines brightest when sun catches blade,
and children and wives dance frenzied in mind.

They are but ants to deities of old,
no man can compete with the terms they have set.
Inner conflict corrupts faith invested in men,
and hope ebbs away like tears lost in rain.

Redemption is asked, as they bathe in their sins,
they know not what waits in the bleakness of night.
Festering fear skulks the annals of time –
a keepsake for those with no conscience to bear.

A darkened sky shimmers to the rush of decay,
a Titan awakes from his abysmal abyss.
Ethereal gold liquid leaks from his veins –
the ichor of a God with vengeance in mind.

As prayers were forgotten, their supremacy waned,
too late in the day is forgiveness to ask.
Apocalypse lay upon the malefactors of Greece,
and all in plain sight will be levelled from scratch.

The phalanx positions a sinewy line,
and awaits the reunion of a family affair.
God battles Titan in furious fashion –
projectiles are hurled with impenitent disdain.

The aftermath of battle leaves scars on earth’s skin,
grief ensures innocence cries for its loss.
Damage done well, keeps peace for a time,
and from spilled Titan blood, new life now begins.