Flocks of planes prepare for aerial battle, bold in their statement of war between shades of grey.
There is an uncanny resemblance to a murder of crows in the behaviour of pilots, looming overhead.
By the reflection of ones gaze in the unsheathing of my blade, a mere glint of honed steel will be a feast for their sights,
Oh, how the graceful reverberating of streetlight bells and malign humming of drones quake the earth, resonating with the bones of all in impassioned polyphony!
Close your eyes, do you not feel it? My culling spire will pierce this harrowing wind.