the day of the night

The day of the night.
Many words said and done. Many people died and dying. The people in the graves. The rubble of the cities in their glory. The people that fight, the last of their kind. They all have the skills passed won to them and learned. The skills that keep them alive from day to day as the world gets smaller and smaller. The dying age of man. Well least one kind of man. The week and poor. They are nothing in this time anymore. The weathy and powerful have had the way. As they call it the way of the wind. A simple plan. The words of the ones with the green sticks. Well least that’s what we call them. WE don’t see much of them anymore since they when into hiding with the start of this race war. Well some say it’s a race war. The ways we live. We live by the night and the way we die. The graves we dig for our own. Marked with just mere stones. A number etched on the surface of the rock. The number of the day they died and the number they were. Just numbers to some, but to us they are how we remember them. If you are not part of the resistance you don’t know what the rocks are. It’s so no one of the rich dig up the bodies and disgrace it. The war is what keeps the money flowing in there pockets. The words.