A saga of ghostmen and their warring ways told from pasts to present futures.

They first came running from the mist
of highland clouds where duel blades
cut through the clothes of young lads
brave and bold, ready to wear their tartans proud.
Broadswords swung in the guise of honor
among souls who dwelled in tired sorrow.
The ghostmen road on pale bright steeds
and cut to ribbons the hearts of ailing men
in infamy's golden age, drunk on lavender and sage
as a woman cures with cranberries and chamomile
She bandages her lover's arm with petticoat torn.
She'll kiss his lips with a soft, soft sigh and cries
and pray for the magic coachmen,
as she watches them fly away.

Long since past, the cannon fires haze
cleared in the mist, by time's changing shape.
An ancestor walks his own domain, where castles once stood now abandoned and alone.
Moans of white ghostmen haunt his mind and soul
writing to his hearts desire, her picture bright before a camp fire with buds surrounding him, with guns full and ready.
Await their own ghostmen and their passing fancies
to feel their arms on their darling's legs, to her sigh and coo.
They'll love, kiss the night's stale sadness into a tolerable bliss with a scent of sweet jasmine, beer, and burgers on a grill in their heads
of one frosty noon on their back porches dreaming.
The mists falls silent before their storm has come
in a hail of bullets and shells, the eagle screams.
When ghostmen came calling in a town called Bastogne.

The calendar's turned.
A new millennium filled with hope evaporated in a cloud of pale white dust by cries of thousands torn by guilt.
Past deeds come with flailing arms confused and bruised.
The ghostmen are calling across the nations, wars still blaze with brutal incensed rain, disasters many, apocalypses are rising,
only a revelation as such could devise.
War is a religion -- Its flag dressed in bright red colors with a pale cross of a sword serrated with dual edges dripping in blood.
Razor thin to cut a paper man into or at least his human's counterpart;
the flag dyed from liquids of disease, pestilence, falsehood and fear.

These are the not the sons of father's yet I know them well.
They are my restless brothers in spirit released, released from indignant souls unprepared for life's dreams and love.
Such is the alchemy of ghostmen, if I do not heed my father's warning, they'll come knocking and take my love's hand from me when I find her.

Then how will the world dream again? The ghostmen cannot be free!
Stall the ghostmen's horses and they'll not be released.
Try a new alchemy, peace is the new alloy.
Pray and make it quickly.