Wicked as they are, in silence they come,
Like dark soldiers marching across our subconscious.

Sleep abides our forbidden thoughts,
Its amiable empathy soothing our eyes into sleep.

Cradled in the arms of mother night,
Breath like a whispered music beneath our heads.

They march across the realms of our minds,
The Soldiers pillage our dreams; cast our light and seek our shadows.

Adamant of their greed and anger as they seek revenge,
Tearing our eyes wide so we may watch that which is lost in light.

They are our creations, an echo of what we refuse to hear.
Creatures that thrive on our fears.

They bask in the frosty shadows
Casting by a frightening light of which there is no origin.

Death is their master and servant,
In sleep, they live.

Our screams are silent,
Yet all fallen angels hear us on our way down