Cumorah: Poetry Saturday

CUMORAH

The mountains womb is gold, the valley's skin is blood.
A dark spirit whispert, bringing the ax and flood,
sending the wicked and righteous back to the mud.

Satan's on his throne, Record is in the ground.
I light the funeral pyres, until it's time be found,
forgotten but by the worms deep in the mound.

I was in the ruin, I was in the shield wall,
I was there to see father Mormon fall,
but none beside could catch him ere deaths call.

Let come the maelstrom, let come the rain,
wash away the memory o' this place once again.
This time perhaps not at all in vain.